DBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  [FORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


WILLIAM  JOHNSTON  HUTCHINSON. 


[SECOND  EDITION.] 


NEW     YORK: 

1878. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1876, 

By  WILLIAM  JOHNSTON  HUTCHINSON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


EVENING    POST   PRESSES. 


PS 


THIS   VOLUME   IS   INSCRIBED 


PREFATORY     NOTE. 


Many  of  the  following  Poems  have  gone  abroad  through  the 
courtesy  of  the  Press. 

Sometime  since,  that  the  flavor  of  the  beverage  might  be 
intimated,  before  venturing  to  pour  it  out  more  liberally,  a  small 
Edition  of  the  Poems  was  distributed  among  the  friends  of  the 
Author. 

In  its  maturer  form,  this  volume  is  submitted  to  the  reading 
public. 

W.  J.  H. 

NEW  YORK,  January,  1878. 


CONTENTS. 


ALCIBIADES'  SOLILOQUY      ......  97 

ANTONY'S  LAMENT  OVER  C.ESAR      ....  47 

ALONE      .........  51 

ASLEEP          ........  72 

ALONG  THE  STREAM           ......  80 

AYESHA 102 

ARSINOE            ........  168 

ALTH.EA  AND  MARIGOLD          .....  213 

A  THOUGHTLESS,  BITTER  WORD          ....  144 

A  TRIFLE  IT  WAS,  AS  LIGHT  AS  THE  AIR           .         .  178 

AUTUMN  MUSINGS       .......  33 

AT  MOMENTS  IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MANY  ROSES           .  14 

BERENECE          ........  105 

BELATED 139 

BEDOUIN  ROBBER  AND  STEED      .         .         ,         .         .150 

CANST  THOU  FORGET  ?             119 

DOWN  WHERE  THE  SEA  AND  RIVERS  MEET           .         .  44 

DECS!  MEUS! 56 

DEATH  OF  JULIAX  CHLORUS 68 

DAVID  AND  ABSALOM      .         .         .         .         .         .156 

ECHO 100 

ETHEL 106 

EPIGRAM 173 

EXQUISITE  DRAPERIES  HANGING  IN  THE  WEST  203 


ii  CONTENTS. 

EN  GASCOGNE  31 

FALTERING 186 

GOLDEN  HOURS 162 

HOLLYWOOD.          .......         73 

HYMN 211 

INVITATION  TO  JExEAS 121 

IN  REMEMBRANCE       .         .         .         .         .         .         .142 

INVOCATION  TO  POLHYMNIA 217 

I  AM  DYING,  EGYPT,  DYING 206 

I  WATCHED  UPON  A  POINT  OF  BEATEN  SAND  .         22 

LA  FLEUR 124 

LINES  TO  THE  ALABAMA  RIVER         .  125 

LINES:  THE  SENSE  OF  DEATH '218 

LITTLE  MAID  OF  ANGLESEY 128 

LOVE'S  IN^DEX 148 

LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY       ....  .164 

LAKE  AND  WILD  FOWL 224 

LINES:  MINSTREL,  STAY         .....       227 

LINES  TO 23 

MY  ARGOSIES 61 

MOTHERLESS 67 

MESSAGES      ........         82 

MY  MATE  AND  I  ....   180 

MARJORIE 145 

ON  CONCLUDING  CICERO     ....  108 

ON  CONCLUDING  GIBBON'S  HISTORY         .         .         .       108 
ODE:  HORACE;  ON  CONTENTMENT  .         .         .    191 

ODE:  HORACE;  To  THALIARCHUS  .         .         .194 

ODE:  HORACE;  To  QUIXTUS  DELLIUS         .         .         .   195 


CONTENTS.  iii 

ODE:   HOKACE;  To  LICINIUS  MURENA         .          .         .   197 
ODE:  HORACE;  To  GROSPHUS        ....       201 

ODE:  HORACE;  Ox  His  OWN  WORKS         .         .         .  205 
ODE:  HORACE;  CIVIL  WAR    .         .         .         .         .       209 

OUT  ON  THE  MYSTIC  SEA  .         .         .         .         .199 

O,  FLY  THOSE  MuSIC-BREATHING   HALLS  !  .         .        146 

ON  THE  SANDS  .......       9 

PAUSANIAS     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .109 

PSALM  CXXVI 12 

RUSSI-AN  HYMN 24 

SONNET:  To  MY  SISTER  137 

•SONNET :  JANUARY          .         .         .         .         .         .214 

SONNET:  To ,    WITH  THE  ODES  OF  PINDAR      .  216 

SONNET:  To  EDNA 155 

SONNET:   THERE  is  AN  ATTRIBUTE       ....    166 

SONNET:  WHEN  ON  MY  BRIEF  EXISTENCE      .         .       171 
SONNET:  COME,  DOUBTER  .         ...         .         .174 

SONNET:  MINE  EARS  DRINK  is       .         .         .         .        175 

SONNET:  To  JULIA Iy7 

SONNET:  AND  HAD  I  PLANNED         ....       187 
SONNET  :  THE  ASSYRIAN  MONARCH     .         .         .         .188 

SONNET:  THE  SUNBURST '208 

SONNET  :  To  MILDRED        ......       8 

SUNSHINE  IN  WINTER 160 

SONG  :  KNIGHT  OF  THE  TWELFTH  CENTURY          .         .219 
STRIKE,  STRIKE  THE  HARP  !    .         .         .         .         .         17 

THE  PILGRIM 1 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  SEA    .         .         .  .         38 

THE  EVENING  WALK  .     40 


iv  CONTENTS. 

THE  INVITATION.  42 

THE  LOST  TREASURE          .         .         .         .         .         .52 

THE  REVELLERS     .......         58 

THE  WAGER 63 

THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLESS'D    ...         65 
THE  SACRILEGE  OF  ALARIC         .         .         .         .         .75 

THE  PLEDGE 79 

THE  FOG-BELL 86 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ORIOLK     .....         83 
THE  CAPE  OF  STORMS         .         .         .         .         .         .91 

THE  RECLUSE t»3 

THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR         .         .         .         .         .         .123 

THE  COMPLAINT 127 

THE  FAILURE .132 

THE  STAR  OF  FRIENDSHIP       .         .         .         .         .138 
THE  CHANGING  OF  THE  TIDES  ....   14O 

THE  WATCHER 152 

THE  MATINS  BELL 17*2 

THE  BURIAL  OF  PIZARRO         .....       182 

THE  DREAMERS  .         .          .         .          .          .          .189 

THE  HOURS   .  .       2nl 

THE  BATTLER  220 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD 225 

To  THE  ROBIN  .         .         .         .         .         .         .41 

To  MY  SISTER 46 

To  A  FRIEND     ....  ...     59 

To  PHILOMEL 103 

To  BROTHER 130 

To  MYSIE  167 


CONTENTS.  V 

To  A  SUNBEAM            ....  .   176 

THEODORA 89 

TELL  ME,  GOOD  LADY-MOTHER,  WHY         .         .  .185 

THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SPRING 6 

THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SUMMER       .          .          .          .  .13 

THE  SUCCESSION  OF  AUTUMN            ....  28 

THE  SUCCESSION  OF  WINTER 36 

To  A  SLEEPING  CHILD     .         .         .         .         .         .  29 

THE  MUEZZIN    ........     25 

UNRECONCILED 215 

VENUS  IS  AGAIN  THE  EVENING  STAR    .          .          .  .37 

WOULD  DAY  WERE  COME 55 

WE  WATCH  THE  DAWNING  OF  HER  Lino    .         .  .15 

WHEN  THOU  ART  GONE          .         .          .         .         .  18 

WHEN  I  AM  LOWLY  LAID  TO  REST  20 


POEMS. 


THE    PILGRIM. 


ARGUMENT. 

A  would-be  pilgrim  leaves  his  humble  home,  and  is 
by  inspiration  led  to  a  mountain  top.  He  sees  the  fair 
earth  spread  before  him  ;  and,  reading  its  history  as  in 
a  picture,  becomes  unwilling  to  mingle  in  such  scenes. 
Saddened  by  the  character  of  man  as  there  depicted, 
but  soothed  by  Nature's  charms  and  lovely  examples,  he 
retraces  his  steps  irresolutely  homeward. 

jg  EHOLD  a  toil-stained  pilgrim  leave 

his  cot, 

Resolved  to  shun  forever  his  hard  lot ; 
And  speed,  with  quickening  steps,  forth 

from  the  vale 
That  hears  the  roar,  but  'scapes  the 

wintry  gale, 

On  toward  the  mountain's  base  ;  nor  feel  the  darts 
That  naming  downward  come.     Nay  !  it  imparts. 


2  POEMS. 

A  new-born  vigor  to  his  feet :  he'd  gain 
Ton  mountain   top  while   daylight's  charms  yet 
reign. 

.Upward  he  pants.     There,  dimly  in  the  skies, 
He  sees  the  rock  toward  which  his  wistful  eyes 
A    thousand    times    in  boyhood's     years     have 

turned, 

And  kindled  in  his  breast  the  fire  that  burned 
Through  all  the  weary,  seeming  endless  years  ; 
Nor  ceased  to  smoulder,  though  a  flood  of  tears 
Had  there  its  angry  surges  vainly  rolled 
To  stay  the  flame  he  fain  would  have  controlled. 

Thus  doth  he  climb  the  chamois'  rocky  track, 
Nor  stays  an  instant  to  look  quickly  back  ; 
For  not  until  he  gains  yon  dizzy  height 
"Would  he  desire  to  view  the  wondrous  sight  : 
Then,  then,  in  one  intoxicating  draught, 
Its  pleasing  aspects  may  be  deeply  quafft. 
Chasms  may  yawn  and  towering  crags  may  mock, 
What  cares  he  now  '?   his  feet  have  gained  the 

rock  ; 

And,  with  a  wistful  cry,  to  view  the  world 
He  lifts  his  eyes — and,  lo  !  it  lies  unfurled 
In  one  long  pageant,  one  unbounded  page, 
As  told  in  words  and  verse  from  age  to  age. 


THE  PILGRIM.  3 

His  eyes   seek   first  the   spot   where    man  drew 

breath, 

And  tell  his  heart  how  quickly  man  courts  death  ; 
Not  on  himself  the  load  of  ruin  bears, 
But   bows  his  kind    through    all   the    course  of 

years. 

He  sees  the  lands  with  peoples  multiplied  ; 
He  sees  the  arm  that  placed  them  there  defied  ; 
He  hears  His  servant  plead  ;  no  longer  urge, 
But  dreadful  silence  reigns  ;  the  boisterous  surge 
.Sweeps  down  o'er  all.     Fair  Nature's  dark'ning 

face 
Hath  not  a  smile  for  one  of  ah1  that  race. 

He  looks  again,  and  other  nations  rise 
On  Asia's  plains,  'neath  Egypt's  cloudless  skies. 
Uncounted  hosts  in  glittering  war's  array- 
Make  death  their  trade — a  monarch's  voice  obey 
To  spoil  a  peaceful  land,  or  ruthless  sweep 
With  deeds  of   blood   that    make    bright  angels 

weep  ; 

And  they,  in  turn,  a  satrap's  chain  to  feel, 
Sesostris'  line  crushed  'neath  the  Persian's  wheel ; 
They  then  to  yield  to  crushing  conquest's  blight, 
And  feel  with  Athens  Macedonia's  might 
For  one  dire  instant — then  to  cast  their  charms 
Without  one  cry  to  Roma's  conquering  arms. 


4  POEMS. 

On  come  the  ages.     Now  a  ruthless  host 
Steals   from   its    barren    home,    stern    Scythia's 

coast, 

With  dread  destruction  loosened  in  its  train — 
Each  home  to  sack,  each  palace  deeply  stain  ; 
And  nearer  yet, — when  Christian  nations  rise 
With  History's  page  to  teach  them  to  despise 
Such  fearful  arts, — yet  ever  will  pursue 
With  fiendish  cries  war's  way,  and  still  renew 
The  senseless  struggle  that  with  glory  crowned 
Fair  Fortune's  guests,  while  woes  their  millions 

drowned. 

But    now   he   turns   from    mankind's    endless 

crimes, 
And    views    with    swelling    joy    the     beauteous 

climes 

That  picture  all  the  earth.     Majestic  forms  arise, 
Of  sombre  hue  ;  but,  as  they  pierce  the  skies, 
Reflecting  gems  flash  back  the  rays  of  fire, 
And  bathe  his  soul  in  transports  of  desire. 
The  grand  old  Ocean,  breaking  on  the  shore, 
The  old,  old  tale,  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  secrets  kept  deep  down  within  its  breast  ; 
Of  forms  held  dear,  forever  laid  to  rest ; 
Of  some  fair  island,  laved  by  summer  seas, 
Where  sea-nymphs'  tresses  flutter  in  the  breeze.  — 


THE  PILGRIM.  § 

The  distant  river,  silver-sparkling  thread, 

Brings  quick  delight,  as  swiftly  in  its  bed 

It  pours  along  with  ceaseless,  noiseless  motion 

To  pay  its  tribute  to  unbounded  ocean. 

Doth  it  not  teach  of  life  ?    A  joyous  thing 

It  seeks  the  light — 'tis  then  a  feeble  spring, 

But    downward     seeks    its     course,    and    grows 

apace, 

And  in  an  hour  enters  for  the  race 
A  generous  rival,  then  a  mighty  power 
That  makes  its  path  at  will,  and  every  hour 
Bears  on  its  bosom  fruit  for  good  or  ill, 
Blesses  the  land — or  curses  by  its  will. — 
And   then   the   beauteous  flowers    that  deck  the 

field! 

No  human  art  can  such  pure  rapture  yield  : 
See,  how  they  bloom  in  every  opening  dale  ! 
See,  how  they  kiss  the  soft,  caressing  gale  ! 
Ah,  how  the  heart  is  cheered  if  it  but  trace 
These  tinted  smiles  on  Nature's  lovely  face  ! 

The  pilgrim  sought  with  calm  and  thoughtful 

mien 

His  homely  cot,  and  left  the  glorious  scene 
For  other  eyes  than  his  ;  and  softly  sighed  : 
O  beauteous  earth  !  O  dark'ning  human  tide  ! 


POEMS. 


How  joyous  is  the  scene  in  all  thy  lands  ! 
And  all  thy  woes  are  born  of  human  hands  ! 
The  time-worn  wrecks  along  thy  paths  I  trace 
Bleach  there  thro'  man's  unkiudness  to  his  race. 


THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SPRING. 


C  UROR  A,  from  her  lofty,  burnished  car, 
||JSees  Morning's  torch  glow  with  dimin- 

ished  flame  ; 
Bends  to  her  steeds,  points  to  the  paling 

star, 

And  links  a  warning  with  its  goddess- 
'  name. 

E'en  as  she  speaks  descends  the  needful  change  — 
The  quivering  nostril  answers  gleaming  eye  : 
They  pant  again  ethereal  depths  to  range, 
And  Avake  the  echoes  of  the  shadesome  sky. 
Up,  up  they  wend  from  out  the  lambent  east, 
Driving  huge,  tossing  clouds  of  tardy  pace  ; 
Now  feel  the  slack'ning  rein,  and  spring,  released, 
To  toil  the  chariot  through  unmeasured  space. 


THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SPRINQ.  j 

Aurora  doth  but  heed,  to  bid  them  fly — 
So  eager  she  to  please  a  fresh  desire : 
Yet  pity  dims  the  lustre  of  her  eye 
To  burn  again  with  an  increasing  fire. 
For  lo  !  she  bears  upon  uplifted  arms 
A  joyous  infant  whose  celestial  blush 
Conveys  the  promise  of  expectant  charms, 
And  shames  the  splendor  of  the  morning  flush. 
Now  stays  the  chase ;    she  grasps  a  trembling 

wight ; 
Larnpus  and  Phaeton  wheel  as  with  stretched 

hand 

She  plucks  his  garland,  studded  like  the  night, 
And  wills  the  infant  brow  support  the  band. 
He,  laughing,  shakes  his  locks  its  frosts  to  fling. 
Thus  Winter  was  despoiled  to  crown  the  youthful 

Spring. 


POEMS. 


SONNET. 

HEN,  Mildred,  I  had  heard,  with  sweet 

surprise, 
An  idle  tale — in  time  bygone  my 

own — 
Retold  with   pleasing  harmony  of 

tone, 
I  could    not,   as    I  harken'd,    but 

surmise  : 

Doth  not  there  sleep  within  these  depthless  eyes 
A  struggling  fount  whose  waters,  now  un 
known, 

Shall  yet  refresh — when  'tis  maturer  grown, 
When  it  reflects  the  ever-welcoming  skies  ? 
And,  gazing  on  a  fair,  a  faultless  cheek 

Whose  colors  spoke  the  soul's  untainted  hue, 
In  fancy  watched  arous'd  emotions  play 
Ere  yet  obedient  lips  had  learned  to  speak. 
An  ardent  wish  upon  the  instant  grew : 
Not  distant  be  the  dawning  of  that  day  ! 


O.V  THE  SANDS. 


ON  THE  SANDS. 

looked   on   Ocean  in  her    angriest 

mood  : 

?The  skies  of  sablest  hue  above  her  hung; 
The  winds,  at  arms,  aggressive,  chill  and 

rude, 

A  loud  defiance  to  her  tossings  flung  ; 
And  high  above  the  stormy  petrel  sung 
That  note  she  loves  when  all  around  is  gloom. 
'Twas  then,  as  forth  that  shrill  storm-rhythm  rung, 
We  saw  beneath  the  deadly  barrier  loom 
That  lured  yon  laboring  victim  to  a  timeless  doom. 


Say,  Ocean,  which  thy  best  beloved  spoils  ? 
Are  they  alone  the  beautiful  and  fair 
That  breathe  sweet  life  away  within  thy  toils, 
And  tinge  thy  tonings  with  a  deep  despair  ? 
Should  it  not  be  alone  thy  constant  care 
To  waft  them  to  some  certain  happy  end, 
With  smiles  such  as  I  oft  have  seen  thee  wear  ? 
Canst  thou  not  cherished  purposes  defend 
When  they  such  costly  aims  shall  to   thy  arms 
commend  ? 


I0  POEMS. 

We  looked  on  Ocean — 'twas  her  angriest  phase — 
Tumultuously  surging  at  our  feet. 
In  wonderment  there  learned  her  wondrous  ways 
Unheedful  of  the  lowering  mists  that  beat, 
Unmarked  as  when  the  troubled  main  they  meet. 
Breathless,  we  note  the  towering  billows  bound 
Till  they  the  froward  headland's  front  shall  greet ; 
Feel  the  quick  shock — the  never  ceasing  sound 
Breaks   on  the  ear,  and  treads  a  never-ending 
round. 

Say,  Ocean,  why  should  one,  if  formed  to  grace, 
Trust  to  thy  wiles  ?     'Tis  to  be  torn  and  riven. 
Is  it  with  thine  as  with  another  race  ? 
The  promise  fails  that  seemed  most  truly  given : 
The  bark  once  gently  fann'd  now  tempest  driven. 
She  dreamed  not  as  she  lay  where  harbor  locks, 
Like  some  poor  penitent  that  roams  unshriven 
Her  calm  presaged  a  storm  of  tireless  shocks, — 
For  who  can  soothe  the  ire  of  the  insatiate  rocks  ? 

We  look'd,  'twas  Ocean's  most  presumptuous  hour: 
When  high  she  lifted  up  a  threat'ning  hand 
And  asked  obedience  to  her  gathering  power 
From  the  resisting,  unsubmissive  land. 
She  spread  unshapely  trophies  on  the  strand 


OAT  THE  SANDS.  1 1 

Whereon  her  seal  unchangeable  was  set 
That  man  might  pause  to  of  himself  demand  : 
"  What  dwells  there  in  this  frame  of  mine  that  yet 
Dares  to  contend  with  thee" — asks  to  himself  for 
get. 

Say,  Ocean,  why  art  thou  enraged  afresh  ? 

Yon  monstrous  surge  !  if  't  be  thy  might  controls, 

Turn  it  away  from  that  within  thy  mesh 

Ere  a  devouring  tide  upon  it  rolls  ! 

Ah  !  it  must  be  as  on  life's  treacherous  shoals. 

There,  when  ill-fated  barks  may  not  recede, 

Destruction's  ready  mantle  soon  enfolds, 

And  prospering  shapes,  that  scorned  at  thought  of 

need, 
Spread  fragments  far  and  near  to  blazon  Ocean's 

greed. 

We  looked  on  Ocean  in  her  angriest  mood  : 
We  could  but  linger — 't  was  a  waking  trance, 
(We  love  her  angriest  and  in  solitude) 
And,  as  we  marked  a  giant  form  advance, 
Knew  the  import  of  that  last,  eager  glance 
That  deep  into  the  soul  its  whisper  tells  : 
"Tis  here  where  angry  Ocean  toils  and  pants, 
He  rides  supreme,  and  more  't  would  seem  He 

dwells, 
Than  on  the  peaceful  strand,  on  Ocean's  troubled 

swells. 


POEMS. 


PSALM  CXXVI. 

HEN  'neath  the  Babylonish  skies 

We  dared  to  lift  our  tearful  eyes, 

And  saw  thy  face  serenely  beam, 

Lord,  then  were  we  of  those  who 

dream. 

Then  were  our  mouths  with  laughter 

filled, 

And  joy  our  anxious  bosoms  thrilled  ; 
The  heathen  cried  in  their  dismay, 
Why  lead  the  captive  host  away  ? 


Oh,  wondrous  !  how  Thy  mighty  deeds 
More  than  suffice  for  mighty  needs  ! 
Though  we  were  naked,  faint,  and  sad, 
Thy  present  care  hath  made  us  glad. 

When  in  captivity  we  burned, 
Thy  hand  the  lash  of  bondage  turned  ; 
As  banished  Kedron  southward  flows, 
So,  Lord,  again  divert  our  woes. 

That  we  may  say,  Though  we  in  tears, 
Have  toiled  a  tedious  span  of  years, 
Our  days,  yet,  Lord,  shalt  thou  employ 
To  reap  where  we  have  sown  in  joy. 


THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SUMMER,  13 

Let  him  that  goetli  forth  to  weep 
A  store  of  precious  seedling  keep  : 
He  shall  return  with  golden  grain, 
And  joy  abide  with  him  again. 


THE  SUCCESSION  OF  SUMMER 

( 

HROUGH  the  resplendent  portal  of  the 

morn 

The  rosy  goddess  guides  her  car  again. 
The  shining  steeds,  subdued,  of  passion 

shorn, 
Press  onward  with  the  richly  burdened 

wain. 

Crouched  at  the  goddess'  feet,  in  flowery  chains, 
A  lusty  captive  now  her  thought  implores, 
And  waits  the  answer  to  his  ardent  strains. 
Along  the  ruddy  vault  the  chariot  soars, 
To  stay  anon  within  a  fragrant  bower. 
Now,  now  her  lips  the  ready  answer  frame  : 
"  O  youth,  once  joyous  Spring,  near  is  the  hour — 
The  hour  that  parts  thee  from  a  potent  name." 
With  the  response,  behold  from  out  the  night, 
Of  gracious  aspect  and  of  noble  mien, 
A  presence  come  to  charm  his  ravished  sight 
And  pay  an  homage  to  the  Morning  Queen. 


I4  POEMS. 

Aurora  folds  her  in  a  close  embrace, 
And,  turning  from  the  suppliant's  earnest  gaze, 
"  For  thee  alone  I  may  this  crown  displace. 
Be  thine  the  care  of  thrifty,  fruitful  days  !" 
Then  o'er  the  prostrate  boy  she  lingering  bends 
Ere  from  his  locks  the   changeful   crown   she 

tears, 

And  to  his  gaze  her  laden  hand  extends  ; 
Then  to  a  beaming  front  the  bauble  bears: 
The  stripling  veils  his.  grief,  accepts  the  vow — 
Thus  was  young  Spring  despoiled  to  deck  fair 

Summer's  brow. 


AT  MOMENTS  IN  THE  MONTH   OF  MANY 
ROSES. 

T  moments,  in  the  month  of  many  roses, 
Than  this  my  heart  would  every  wish 

resign — 

To  steal  in  silence  where  the  one  re 
poses 

Whose    being  cast  a  radiance    over 
mine. 

From  absence  can  affection  ne'er  deliver, 
Or  to  the  longing  absent  ones  restore  ? 


WE  WATCH  THE  DAWK  ING  OF  HER  LIFE. 


15 


The  answer  is  my  heart's  despairing  quiver  : 
"That     radiance     breaks    upon    thy    life    no 
more  !" 

Farewell  !  dear  object  of  my  adoration. 

Would  that  the  grievous  word  could  be  unsaid  ! 
That  I  might  keep  as  mine  this  lonely  station, 

And  lay  beside  thine  own  a  weary  head  ! 


WE  WATCH  THE  DAWNING  OF  HER  LIFE. 


dawning  of  her  life 

Draw  softly  to  a  close  ; 
And  all  there  is  of  thoughtless  glee 

Give  way  to  calm  repose  : 
We  know  as  'tis  without  portrayed, 

Within  the  seal  is  set, 
Though  fair  the  dawning  of  her  life, 

Her  morn  is  fairer  yet. 


Glad  was  the  dawning  of  the  life 

Now  merging  into  morn  ; 
Few  were  the  clouds,  and  silver-tinged 

Upon  its  azure  borne. 


1 6  POEMS. 

We  cannot  but  foretell,  as  doth 

The  watchman  cry  aloud, 
"  Fair  dawn  !  fair  morn  !  beyond  the  wave 

There  hangs  no  shadowy  cloud  !" 

And  yet  we  would  it  were  not  so: 

The  dawn  hath  sped  so  soon, 
We  fear  the  glory  of  her  morn 

Will  ripen  into  noon. 
And  then, — cease,  cease,  my  anxious  heart ! 

Care  may  not  spread  his  wings 
Above  the  one  whose  echoed  name 

Can  sound  thy  secret  strings. 

We  watch  the  dawning  of  her  life 

Draw  softly  to  a  close — 
So  like  the  opening  of  the  bud 

That  gives  the  sweeter  rose. 
We  say,  "  Fair  dawn,  that  sent  the  hue 

Of  promise  that  we  see, 
When  thou  art  gone,  and,  too,  the  morn, 

How  fair  the  noon  will  be  !" 


STRIKE,  STRIKE  THE  HARP,  ETC.  i-j 

STEIKE,  STEIKE  THE  HAEP  WITH  LIGHT 
EST  FINGER 

,  strike  the  harp   with  lightest 
finger; 

Again  that  mystic  chord  awake! 
There's    something,    something     that 

will  linger 
After  its  waves  of  music  break. 

Minstrel,  what  happy  moment  brought  thee 
Where  music's  votaries  most  dwell  ? 

Minstrel,  whose  friendly  hand  hath  taught  thee 
To  strike  responsive  chords  so  well  ? 

Stay  !  did  I  not,  enwrapt,  bewondered, 
First  hear  that  chord  by  Capri's  shore  ? 

And  breathes  it  not  of  spirits  sundered  ? 
Then,  minstrel,  wake  that  chord  no  more. 

Yet  on  the  midnight  air  'twill  tremble, 

Eising  the  mellow  rays  above. 
Minstrel,  that  strain  cannot  dissemble — 

Thou  strik'st  the  chord  of  hopeless  love  ! 


POEltS. 

WHEN  THOU  AET  GONE  ! 

|f  HEN  thou  art  gone  /"  Now  if  words  may 

efface 
Some  passing  thought  outspoken  by 

mischance, 
I  pray  thee  speed  them  on  in  eager 

chase, 
Ere  deeper  in  my  heart  than  severing 

lance 

Thy  cry  shall  wound.     Thy  silence  doth  en 
hance 
My  gathering  fears  !     Oh,  canst  thou  not  revoke 

What  was  so  lightly  uttered  ?     Silence  grants 
No  prosperous  tale  !     When  from  my  dreams  I 

woke, 

There  lay  upon  my  heart  the  shadow  of  this 
stroke. 

Guide  of  my  infant  steps,  friend  of  my  youth, 

I  stop,  appalled  at  thought  of  thee  away. 
Who  now  shall  point  me  to  the  ways  of  truth, 

Or  tell  of  error's  taint  and  sure  decay  ? 

So  well  I  catch  thy  features'  every  play, 
That  ere  thy  lips  an  admonition  framed, 

Mine  eyes  did  seize  it,  that  my  steps  obey. 
Thou  goest  to  the  honored  and  the  famed, — 

Yet  fall,   ye  willing  tears,    and  be    no    more 
ashamed ! 


WHEN  THOU  ART  GONE.  ig 

"  Yet  I  could  leave  thee!"     'Twas  the  cloud  that 

lowered 

Over  the  brightest,  swiftest  hour  that  flew. 
My  spirit,  too,  would  upward  mount,  empowered, 
And  its  quick  course  alone  toward  thee  pursue. 
I  would  have  had  thee  there  ;  and  yet  I  knew 
The   self-same    hours     from    thee    went    deeply 

fraught — 
Shadowed  like  mine.     No  more  dismayed,  and, 

'too, 

Armed  with  intent,  I  strove,  renewed;  and  thought 
How  deeds  impelled  by  love  are  well  and  swiftly 
wrought. 


thou  art  gone .'"     Then  struck  the  keenest 
dart 

That  ever  yet  hath  pierced  a  hidden  goal. 
Why  shouldst  thou  go  ?   far   better  where  thou 

art — 

Feeding  the  flame  thou  kindled'st  in  my  soul. 
Let  not  thy  tongue  those  distant  scenes  extol  : 
But  rather  stay  it,  till  it  me  assure, — 

As  doth  yon  timid  dove  that  upward  stole 
To  gaze  upon  the  world.     She,  guileless,  pure, 
Wheels  to  the  cotter's  roof,  and  knows  herself 
secure. 


POEMS. 


WHEN  I  AM  LOWLY  LAID  TO  BEST. 

* 

,|j  HEN  I  am  lowly  laid  to  rest 

Oh,  let  it,  let  it  be 
Within  the  sound  of  curling  crest; 
And  be  the  dirge  I  love  the  best 

Sung  by  the  moaning  sea. 
And  let  it  be  so  very  near, 
My  grave  the  sea  beside, 
That  I  may  be — when  they  shall  hear 
How  low  I  lie  and  they  were  dear — 
Bewept  by  every  tide. 

Oh,  listen  not  if  one  shall  say: 

Within  this  quiet  vale 
'Twere  best  he  dream  the  hours  away 
Lulled  by  the  brooklet's  simple  lay 

And  sheltered  from  the  gale. 
Above  the  brooklet's  voice  should  sound 

My  never-ceasing  sighs  : 
For  never  near  its  peaceful  round 
Could  happy  rest  for  me  be  found — 

Nor  'neath  its  silent  skies. 


WHEN  I  AM  LOWLY  LAID  TO  REST. 

Or  if  thy  friend,  with  eye  impearled, 

Point  to  the  mountain  bleak, 
And  say  :  His  feet,  when  rudely  whirled 
The  tempest,  and  its  lightnings  hurled, 

That  spot  were  wont  to  seek. 
Believe  thou  mayst  ;  but  yet  forfend 

To  delve  my  humble  bed  : 
I  should  not  sleep  though  tempest  rend 
The  ageless  rock,  and  cypress  bend 

Low  o'er  my  restless  head. 

Oh,  lay  me  here  !  I'd  only  dwell 

With  my  beloved  main  ! 
Beneath  the  silver  moon  we  tell 
The  secrets  that  we  keep  so  well, 

To  whisper  o'er  again  : 
And  be  it  very,  very  near, 

This  grave  the  sea  beside, 
That  I  may  be — when  they  shall  hear 
How  low  I  lie  and  they  were  dear — 

Bewept  by  every  tide. 


22  J'OESfS. 

I  WATCHED   UPON  A  POINT   OF  BEATEN 
SAND. 

WATCHED  upon  a  point  of    beaten 

sand, 
To  see  the  silver  moon  grow  softly 

bright  : 

I  saw  her  rise — majestically  and  grand, 
To  take  her  station  as  the  Queen  of 
Night. 

Between  that  wave-worn  shore  and  where  she  lay, 
Upon  the  peaceful  ocean's  distant  rim, 

There  gleamed  a  band  of  many  a  fostered  ray, 
Whilst  all  without  was  strangely  weird  and  dim. 

Upon  the  instant,  starting  from  the  black, 

There  showed  upon  the  bright  a  graceful  thing  : 

She  swept  athwart  the  rippling,  molten  track, 
Then  sought  the  darkness  with  her  snowy  wing. 

"  Ah,  me  !"  I  cry,   "  In  my  last  fitful  sleep, 
Thus  did  a  beauteous  vision  come  unseen, 

Bathing  an  instant  in  a  silvery  deep, 
The  next  to  hide  as  it  had  never  been  !" 


LINES  TO ,  A  T  LA  KK  GEORGE.  23 

LINES  TO  ,  AT  LAKE  GEOKGE. 


PON   the   glad  to-morrow   thou    shalt 

wake, 

To  wander  in  delight  from  vale  to  hill ; 
At  eve  in  some  light  skiff  thou'll  skim 

yon  lake 
And  feel,  perhaps,  thy  inmost  spirit 

thrill— 

Touched  by  its  wondrous  beauty.     Now  I  see 
Thy  dear,  familiar  face  bend  o'er  the  wave, 
Wearing  its  mask  of  thoughtful  revery  ; 

Now  hear  thee  ask  thyself  :   "Why  was't  God 

gave 

This  lake  to  lie  unfathomed  ?"     Then  I'd  say  : 
"  God  hath  his  untold  secrets  ;  yet,  I  know 
He  did  this  in  his  goodness  ('tis  His  way), 

That  I  to  thee  my  depthless  love  might  show. 
This  lakelet  men  have  measured  and  have  told, 
(And  never  depth  will  be  men  may  not  tell,) 
But  could  thy  dear,  dark  eyes  my  heart  behold, 

Whence  love's  n'er  failing  springs  of  crystal  well, 
Thou'dst    see    love's    lakelet    there   iiutold,    un 
fathomed  dwell." 


RUSSIAN  HYMN. 

(Histoire  de  Charles  XII— Voltaire.) 

HOU  who  canst  destiny  control 
And  in  adversity  console, 
Thou,  great  St.  Nicholas,  wherein 
Do  we  offend  thee  ?     By  what  sin 
Do  we  repel  thee,  that  thine  eyes 
No  more  behold  our  sacrifice  ? 
With  genuflexions,  reverence, 

"We  ask  in  vain  for  thy  defense. 

Though  fervently  we  ever  plead, 

Thy  face  turns  not  upon  our  need. 

If  longer  thou  avert'st  thine  eye, 

Unfortunates  !  we  surely  die  ! 

See  us,  as  sheep  without  the  fold, 
Our  enemies  grown  fierce  and  bold, 
Terrible,  insolent,  enraged, 
Indomitable,  unassuaged — 
As  lions  robbed  of  young,  and  vex'd. 
With  seeing  us  alone,  perplexed. 
They  come  that  we  may  perish  fast ; 
Their  toils  about  our  feet  are  cast ; 
And  ere  the  saving  veil  of  night, 
Thousands  shall  vanish  by  their  might : 
If  longer  thou  avert'st  thine  eye, 
Unfortunates  !  we  surely  die. 


THE  MUEZZIN. 

St.  Nicholas,  tliy  saving  hand  — 
Else  we  no  longer  may  withstand. 
Do  thou  again  our  standard  bear, 
And  drive  the  foe  within  his  lair  ; 
Sorcerers  are  they  and  magic  wield: 
From  power  like  this  'tis  thou  canst  shield. 
Mysterious  spells  long  us  enshroud  : 
Thy  hand  can  brush  away  the  cloud. 
So  we,  distressed,  thy  people,  call, 
And  look  to  see  thee  lift  the  pall  : 
If  longer  thou  avert'st  thine  eye, 
Unfortunates  !  we  surely  die. 


25 


THE  MUEZZIN. 

EAKDST  thou  a  cry  from  Byzas'  turret 

walls 

Floating  unsullied  in  the  holy  hush  ? 
It  is  the  muezzin's  warning  voice  that 

falls 
On  thine  attentive  ear.     'Tis  while  the 

rosy  blush 

Of  the  soft  evening  lingers.     Hark  !     He  calls 
The  prayerful  Moslem  from  the  toil  and  rush 
Of  day's  eventful  scenes.     He  stops  and  kneels, 
While  to  his  heart  the  grateful  missive  steals. 


26  POEMS. 

Over  swift  flowing  Bosphorus  it  flutters. 

See  !  the  barbarian  holds  his  dripping  oar. 
He  notes  the  cry  the  distant  muezzin  utters, 

And  stays  his  hand  to  learn  its  meaning  more. 
His  ear  is  all  untaught ;  he  turns  and  mutters  : 

Strangely  'twould  sound  from  Tyras'  wooded 

shore! 

Then  to  his  task  with  sturdier  sinews  bends, 
As  his  rude  prayer  with  the  proTid  Moslem's  blends. 

The  tawny  sheik  looks  down  from  Uskudar — 
Amazement,  awe  and  joy  the  scene  begets  ; 

He  thinks  it  naught  that  he  has  journeyed  far, 
As  he  tells  o'er  a  thousand  minarets. 

Hark  !     Now  above  the  sound  of  lute,  guitar, 
Winning  his  thought  from  glittering  spire  and 
jet, 

The  muezzin's  call  dies  on  the  evening  air  ; 

His  face  turns  to  the  skies — he  clasps  his  hands  in 
prayer. 

The  muezzin's  holy  call,  it  gilds  the  morn, 
Soothes  at  noon-tide  and  solaces  at  eve  ; 

It  ebbs  and  flows  by  stately  Golden  Horn, 

And  dies  at  last  where  Euxiue's  billows  heave. 

The  felon  sad,  down  sluggish  Ister  borne, 

Scorned  of  the  prophet,  when  night's  shadows 
weave, 


THE  MUEZZIN.  2j 

Sinks  in  his  clanking  chains  ;  Hope's  star  is  dim, 
He  knows  the  muezzin's  voice  speaks  not  to  him. 

Delight  of  Istamboul,  thine  eyes  burn  brightly, 
And  richer  glow  thy  cheeks  than  damask  rose  ; 

Thy  bosom  bears  its  store  of  joy  so  lightly, 

Thou  heed'st  not  Love,  but  triflest  with   his 
woes  ; 

Yet  bends  thy  knee  at  morn,  at  noon  and  nightly — 
It  is  as  forth  Sophia's  music  flows  ; 

As  through  the  ambient  air,  of  liquid  notes 

The  muezzin's  wonted  call  to  prayer  floats. 

Muezzin,  men  call  thee  blest.     Oh,  when  alone 
In  the  deep  night,  or  yet  more  lonely  day, 

Thou  hark'nest  to  thy  far-receding  tone, 

And  marvel'st  that  the  sportive  echoes  play — 

What  then  the  many  thoughts  that  are  thine  own  ? 
'Tis  not  unhallowed  pride  thy  cheeks  betray  ! 

As  well  thy  voice  in  palaces  may  reign, 

As  o'er  the  homeless  of  the  starlit  plain. 


28 


THE  SUCCESSION  OF  AUTUMN. 

AKE,  sluggish  Day  !  your  eastern  gate's 

ajar  ! 
Aurora  comes,   C)  beauteous  Queen  of 

Morn  ! 
With  measured  pace  the  steeds  propel 

her  car, 
Oppressed  with  store  of  fruit  and  golden 

corn. 

Within  her  gracious  and  encircling  arm 
Fair  Summer  gazes  on  the  straining  steeds 
With  pensive  eyes,  full  of  the  nameless  charm 
That  springs  from  thought  of   bounteous,  goodly 

deeds. 

On  toils  the  chariot  to  the  dusky  wood— 
To  stay  at  motion  of  uplifted  hand. 
Then  speaks  the  goddess  :    All  thou  wrought'st  is 

good, 

Yet  must  I  take  again  the  magic  wand. 
Forth,  Autumn,  forth  !  Now  'tis  for  thee  to  reign  ! 
Put  on  thy  tinted  robe,  thy  frosts  distil, 
Spread  colors  on  the  wide  o'erteeming  plain, 
And  with  thy  finger  touch  the  verdured  hill  ! 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


29 


She  speaks,  and  from  the  silent,  dark'ning  shade 
A  presence  comes,  in  richest  mantle  clad, 
Whose  fitting  homage  to  the  queen  is  made, 
With  tears  for  Summer — desolate  and  sad. 
Aurora  must  not  heed — the  wreath's  unbound  ; 
On  brow  benignant  now  'tis  set.     Behold 
Who  shares  the  burnished  car — her  beauty  crowned 
As  morning  rends  the  misty  veil  of  gold  ; 
And  who  departs  with  troublous  sigh  restrained  ! 
Thus  Summer  was  despoiled  and  glorious  Autumn 
reigned. 


^r-^^ 

TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

LEEPEB,  little  sleeper  mine, 
In  this  perfect  sleep  of  thine. 
Back  to  me,  back  to  me, 
From  the  hills  and  sounding  sea  : 
That  thy  dainty  cheek  and  brown, 
Softer  than  the  pillow's  down, 
Rests  again  .so  safely  there, 
Heaven  shall  win  a  fervent  prayer. 


Folded,  little,  folded  hands, 
Finished  are  the  many  plans  ; 


l-OEMS. 

Tired,  little,  tired  feet, 
Summer  wanderings  are  complete  ; 
Lashes,  laid  o'er  laughing  eyes, 
Seeing  naught  of  butterflies — 
That  I  see  my  treasure  there, 
Heaven  may  claim  an  ardent  prayer. 

Purling  brooks  and  sunny  beams, 
I  shall  thank  ye  in  my  dreams  : 
'Tis  her  voice,  'tis  her  cheek 
That  your  tender  care  bespeak  ; 
Thine  the  praise  for  gems  of  health 
Shiniug  with  her  tresses'  wealth. 
Joy  is  mine  :  she  sleepeth  there  ! 
Heaven  shall  win  no  sweeter  prayer. 

Sleeper,  little  sleeper  mine, 

In  this  guileless  sleep  of  thine, 

Low  I  bend,  low  I  bend 

Ere  the  words  shall  upward  wend. 

Back  to  me,  back  to  me  ! 

Drop  the  silken  canopy. 

That  she's  sleeping,  sleeping  there, — 

Heaven  ne'er  won  so  fervent  prayer. 


EN  GASCOGNE.  31 

EN  GASCOGNE. 

HAT    strange,  contending  passions  war 

Within  an  erring  mortal's  breast  ! 
Thoughts    formed    for    utt'rance    are 

withheld, 
For  silence,  are  express'd. 


'Twas  yester  eve:  with  mirth  and  wine 

We  chased  the  happy  hours  along  ; 
We  chased  the  hours  with  mirth  and  wine, 
With  laughter  and  with  song. 

It  seems  as  if  long  days  had  passed, 

And  yet  it  was  but  yester  eve. 
So  lengthened  are  the  little  hours 

When  we  have  cause  to  grieve. 

And  one  was  there  with  word  and  smile 
Whose  beauty  did  each  knight  proclaim  : 

She  stood  by  me  and  crowned  the  wine 
Beneath  the  astral-flame. 

She  knew  I'd  loved  her  long  and  well, 
(I've  loved  her  from  her  tenderest  years. ) 

And  yet  I'd  never  breathed  of  love — 
So  fearful  were  my  fears  ! 


.  POEMS. 

We  were  a  brave,  a  revelling  band, 

And  I  the  gayest  of  the  gay, 
As  in  that  Gascon  hall  we  drank 

And  chased  the  hours  away. 

I  spoke,  I  know  not  why,  some  thought 
That  grieved  the  lady  when  'twas  said  : 

I  know  because  she  ceased  to  smile 
And  turned  away  her  head. 

She  turned  away  her  head  ;  and  then 
Turned  back  again  with  jest  and  smile, 

And  sought  with  even  greater  art 
The  hours  to  beguile. 

And  though  I  louder  laughed,  and  though 
I  sang  anew  the  boisterous  song, 

My  eyes  would  seek  the  lady  fair 
That  I  had  seemed  to  wrong. 

Could  she  forget  ?     My  chanson  done 
She  sang  a  measure  of  her  own  ; 

And  laughed  with  voice  as  free  from  care 
An  I  gleeful  as  my  own. 

I  looked  again,  (yet  smiles  enwreathed 
The  features  of  that  lady  dear,) 

And  saw  it  gathering  on  her  cheek — 
The  great  and  glistening  tear. 


Al'TVMN  MUSINGS.  33 

I  saw  it  swelling  there,  and  then 

Upon  her  hand  I  saw  it  fall : 
I  flung  afar  my  drinking-horn 

And  fled  that  banquet-hall. 

And  'tis  for  that  I'm  far  away  ; 

And  'tis  for  that  I'd  be  alone  ; 
And  'tis  for  that  I'm  drifting  now 

Adown  the  broad  Garonne  ! 


-•-'•••  -:-:-  ::^~    - 
AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

HERE  have  I  been,  where  have  I  been 

to-day  ? 
Watching  capricious   billows   at  their 


They  said:  "The  hours  of  man  must 

troubled  be  ! " 
And  rolled  along  in  restless  ecstacy. 

Where  have  I  been  to-day  ?     On  yonder  height, 
Teaching  an  eaglet  resting  from  his  flight : 
•'Aspiring  bird  !  to  rest,  man  doth,  despise  !  " 
She  spread  her  wings  and  mounted  to  the  skies. 


34 


J'OEUS. 


Where  have  I  been  to-day  ?     To  feel,  unseen, 
The  chill  west  wind  that  bloweth  rude  and  keen. 
It  seemed  to  pause  and  mutter  in  its  wrath : 
"Thus    blow    I    'cross    the   wandering   mortal's 
path." 

Where  have  I  been  to-day  ?     I  have  been  where 
The  forest  trees  are  tossing  cold  and  bare. 
They  wildly  swayed  their  sturdy,  leafless  arms 
And  asked:  "Doth   man    mourn    his    departed 
charms  ?  " 

Where  have  I  been  to-day  ?     I  have  been  down 
Noting  the  falling  leaf  so  crisp  and  brown. 
It  seemed  to  say — this  broken,  falling  leaf — 
"Doth  man  complain  his  mighty  years  are  brief?" 

Where  have  I  been  to-day  ?     Where  prostrate  lie 
The  fruits  and  flowers  that  in  the  autumn  die. 
I  learn  from  them  :  "  That  as  it  is  with  man, 
So  blossom  they  and  perish  in  a  span." 

I  have  been  forth  to  Nature  blown  and  sere  — 
Befitting  garment  for  the  dying  year  : 
The  year  will  surely  die  ; — O  bliss  to  me — 
My  steadfast  hope  for  immortality  ! 


35 


I  would  not,  and  I  need  not,  think 
That  He  who  me  my  being  gave, 

Will  quench  it  at  th'  appalling  brink 
That  walls  about  the  shadowy  grave. 

Nay,  nay  ;  not  so  :  each  sense  rebels; 

The  tongue  rejects  the  painful  words  : 
My  spirit  that  each  planet  tells  ! 

That  courses  like  the  flight  of  birds  ! 

It  seems  endued  for  endless  time  : 
Eternity  were  not  too  much. 

My  spirit  as  the  changeful  clime  ! 
Oblivion  in  an  autumn-touch  ! 

Yon  cloudlet  on  the  mountain's  brow 
And  I,  must  ours  be  kindred  fates  ? 

It  hangs  a  moment  there — and  now 
In  air  forever  dissipates. 

No  ;  longer  than  the  burning  sun 
Will  live  the  better  part  of  me  : 

He  wastes,  his  measured  journey  done  : 
I  am  for  all  eternity. 


36  POEMS. 

THE  SUCCESSION  OF  WINTER. 

now    the  vap'rous   East   begins  to 

glow— 
A  token  that  the  Morning  Queen  is 

near  ; 

Now  widening  tints  of  pearl  and  sap 
phire  show  ; 
Now  beams   of    splendor   guide   the 

charioteer. 

Why  slowly  rides  the  queen  '?  why  bows  her  head 
As  if  for  grieving  piteous  cause  she  had  V 
Aurora  mourns  for  Autumn,  who  is  dead, 
And  fitly  comes  in  sombre  garments  clad. 
The   trembling   steeds,    with    cautious   step   and 

slow, 

And  backward  turning  of  reluctant  eyes, 
Propel  the  burnished  car  through  frost  and  snow, 
And  much  lament  warm  Orient's  softer  skies. 
"Speed,   Lampus,  speed!  nor  thon,  good  Phae 
ton,  yield  !  " 

It  is  the  sorrowing  goddess  gently  calls, 
"Upon  the  tablet  of  the  whitening  field 
I  would  proclaim  the  solemn  funerals  !  " 
Who  can  the  rosy  goddess'  will  withstand  ? 
Her  chariot  rests  amid  the  frozen  plains  : 
One  hand  her  face  doth  veil ;  her  sceptre-hand 


VENUS  IS  AGAIN  THE  EVENING  STAR." 


37 


Lifts  Autumn's  crown.     Soft  !  decked  in  glittering 

chains, 

A  spectre  comes  with  crafty,  silent  pace  : 
He  steals  upon  the  goddess  unbeknown, 
She  heedeth  not,  so  lowly  droops  her  face, 
He  grasps  the  crown  ;  he  wears  it  for  his  own  ; 
With  mocking  laugh  the  naked  wood  regains. 
Thus  Autumn  was  despoiled  —  and  ruthless  Winter 

reigns. 


VENUS  IS  AGAIN  THE  EVENING  STAB. 


HOU  fairest  orb  of  all  the  night, 

We  welcome  thine  effulgent  ray, 
That  holds  in  chains  the  waning  light, 

And  bids  night's  shades  away. 
With  softest  flame,  sweet  Venus,  rise 
To  reign  the  queen  of  western  skies  ! 


For  thee  we've  sighed,  when  to  adorn 
The  eastern  skies  thou  wast  installed, 

And  with  thy  splendor  lit  the  morn, 
And  shone  on  eyes  enthralled  ; 

Forerunner  of  the  king  of  day 

Whose  fiery  flood  usurped  thy  sway. 


38  POEMS. 

Now  dost  thou  follow  in  his  train, 
Tho'  but  to  linger  one  brief  hoiir. 

What  rival  shall  thy  beauty  wane 
Or  spoil  thee  of  thy  dower  ? 

With  rapturous  joy  by  mortals  seen 

Thou  floatest  there,  pure,  radiant  queen  ! 

Venus,  thou  loveliest  Evening  Star  ! 

How  can  we  ever  say  farewell  ? 
Never  forgotten,  tho'  afar  ! 

Long  we  for  thy  magic  spell. 
Fair  lamp  of  eve,  there  calmly  rest  ; 
Shed  joy  and  peace  to  every  breast  ! 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  SEA. 

INGIXG,  singing  one  refrain  !  — 
Tell  me,  ever  changing  sea, 
What  so  oft  I've  asked  in  vain  — 
Break  the  secret  now  to  me. 
Flowing,  flowing  to  the  shore, 
From  some  lonely  far  off  clime, 
Here  thine  ebbing  life  to  pour 
In  unceasing,  saddening  rhyme. 
Sighing,  sighing  ever  so  !  — 
Do  the  memories  fill  thy  breast 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  SEA. 

Of  some  deep  lagoon  where  flow 
Emerald  floods  o'er  coral  crest  V 
Swelling  with  the  monsoon's  wrath, 
Of  some  vast  and  sparkling  ocean, 
On  thy  solitary  path 
Wafted  with  unheeded  motion. 
Tell  me,  too,  of  pitiless  storms, 
When,  beneath  the  blackening  skies 
ILift  thy  waves  in  giant  forms 
As  resistless  whirlwinds  rise. 
Sweeping  o'er  many  a  nameless  grave — 
Trophies  to  thy  power  and  might ; 
O'er  the  fairest  and  the  brave, 
Who  embraced  thee  with  affright. 
O,  thou  deep,  mysterioiis  sea  ! 
Coming  now,  and  now  receding — 
Secret  none  I'll  win  from  thee, 
Whisper  none  save  thy  sad  pleading  ! 


39 


40 


POEMS. 

THE  EVENING  WALK. 

HEN  twilight's  softest  breezes  gently 

rise, 
Bearing  upon  their  course  the  clouds 

of  fire, 
And  rarest,  golden  tints  stain  o'er  the 

skies, 

What  peaceful,    pensive   moods    the 
heart  inspire ! 

When  twilight's  shades  anon  come  softly  stealing,. 

How  soothing  then,  alone,  to  walk  abroad, 
While  Nature  sleeps,  her  every  eharm  revealing, 

Soon  wins  the  weary  heart  to  true  accord. 

When  twilight's  dark'ning  pall  at  length  descend 
ing, 

Displays  the  glittering  treasures  of  the  night, 
Of  orbs  and  constellations  never  ending, 

How  bows   the   heart   before   His   power   and 
might  ! 

May  that  long  twilight,  ever  nearing,  nearing, 
Glow  with  rich  hues  of  hopes  divinely  fair  ! 

May  that  last,  dark,  mysterious  pall,  when  clearing, 
Show   Thy  bright,   guiding  presence    waiting 
there  ! 


TO  THE  ROBIN  IN  APRIL. 


TO  THE  ROBIN  IN  APEIL. 


SWEET  robin  redbreast ! 

Thy  blithesome  note  I  hear, 
A  welcome,  welcome  sound 

Delights  my  listening  ear  ; 
And  tells  of  dreary  winter  past, 
And  blooming  spring-time  come  at 
last. 


O  sweet  robin  redbreast  ! 

Each  morning  let  thy  voice 
Pour  forth  its  hymn  of  praise, 

And  with  my  own  rejoice. 
The  Prince  of  Spring-time  young  and  fair, 
Hath  strewn  his  treasures  everywhere  ! 

O  sweet  robin  redbreast ! 

Let  not  the  icy  air 
Subdue  thy  swelling  song, 

Nor  lead  thee  to  despair  ; 
"With  rich  profusion,  leaf  and  flower 
"Will  soon  perfume  thy  hidden  bower. 


42 


POEMS. 


O  sweet  robin  redbreast, 

How  sweet  thy  ringing  strain  ! 
It  seems  to  tell  of  clouds  dispelled 

And  sunshine  come  again  : 
It  seems  to  say,  with  tuneful  art, 
The  dawn  is  near  ;  up,  drooping  heart ! 


THE  INVITATION. 

(Suggested  by  Corinna  going  a-maying.) 

^OME,  up,  my  love  ! 
And  quickly  don 
Thy  field  attire  ; 

For,  grandly  on 
That  steed  of  fire, 
The  sun,  ascends 

above. 

For  shame  !  sweet  sluggard,  banish  hurtful  sleep, 
And  drink  of  Nature's  nectar  long  and  deep  ! 

Stay  not,  but  up  ! 

These  gems  of  dew, 
Like  diamonds  rare, 

Are  known  to  few  : 


THE  INVITATION. 


43 


Yet,  jewel  ne'er  so  fair 

E're  shone  in  crown  or  cup. 
On  morning  glory's  bell  securely  clinging, 
Wherever  violet  banks  are  coyly  springing  ! 

Haste  !  love,  across 

Thro'  field  and  fold, 
In  dark,  wild  wood, 

With  spots  of  gold  ; 
As  conquerors  should, 

We'll  rest  on  throne  of  moss. 
For  thee  a  crown  I  should  be  weaving  now, — 
The  fairest  ever  pressed  thy  golden  brow  ! 

Then  haste,  my  love  ! 

Too  quickly  fly 
Life's  rosy  hours  ; 
Too  quickly  die 
Dew  drops  and  flowers  ; 

Too  soon  the  steed's  above. 
Then  haste,  O,  haste,  dear  love,  we'll  seize  each 

prize 
Of  May-morn,  field,  and  happy,  blushing  skies  ! 


44  POE.VS. 


DOWN  WHERE  THE  SEA  AND  RIVERS 
MEET. 


KNOW  a  secret  shore — and  low; 
Sequestered    and   well  loved  re 
treat  ! 
'Tis    there    the    rippling    wavelets 

flow, — 

Down  where  the   sea   and  rivers 
meet. 


You'd  say  a  spot  so  drear — apart, 
So  wild,  companionless — alone, 

Possessed  no  sweet,  seductive  art, 
No  gentle  language  of  its  own. 

Oh,  yes  !  and  often  I  have  brought, 

From  hurrying  throngs,  oppressing  cares, 

And  told  them  there;  and  there  been  taught 
Content  e'en  fitful  ocean  shares. 

The  ocean  !  unalloyed  delight 

To  note  each  varying  phase  and  change 
Its  face  portrays,  of  shade  or  light, 

As  zephyrs  sweep  or  cloudlets  range. 


DOWN  WHERE  THE  SEA  AND  RIVERS  MEET. 

I  love  it  for  the  friends  I've  made — 

The  laughing  wave,  and  dark  browed  rock 

In  dripping  robes  of  moss  arrayed, 
Secure  from  ocean's  every  shock. 

There,  too,  the  seagull's  piping  notes 
Give  to  the  waves  a  plaintive  strain, 

As  homeless  on  the  gale  she  floats, 
Or  bosoms  on  the  treacherous  main. 

Far  distant  be  the  unwelcome  lot 

That  bars  from  thence  my  hastening  feet ! 

And  may  their  imprints  vanish  not, — 
Down  where  the  sea  and  rivers  meet. 


45 


46  POEMS. 

TO  MY  SISTER. 


H  !  sister  sweet,  e'er  long  to  greet 
An  absent  one  with  fondest  word  ; 

Thine  own  kind  smile  will  soon  be 
guile 
A  heart  with  joyous  visions  stirred. 


By  love  made  bright,  in  quick  delight 
Thine  eyes  will  beam  for  me  once  more 
E'en  as  some  ray,  sped  on  its  way, 
Proclaims  the  wanderer's  voyage  o'er. 

What  welcome  cheer  thy  voice  to  hear, 
When  come  again  those  pleasant  hours 

In  whispering  glade,  in  dark'ning  shade, 
'Mid  waving  fields  and  blossoming  flowers  L 

With  daintiest  care,  in  colors  rare, 
Proud  nature  may  her  robe  adorn  ; 

Be  thou  but  there,  to  me  more  fair 
Art  thou  than  countless  gems  of  morn. 

And  when  at  eve  soft  zephyrs  breathe, 
And  golden  flames  die  in  the  west, — 

E'en  that  calm  hour  hath  not  the  power 
That  lives  within  thy  gentle  breast. 


ANTONY'S  LAMENT  OVER  CAESAR.  47 


ANTONY'S  LAMENT  OVEE  C^SAE. 

[Julius  Cfi'sar.] 

H'  appalling  deed  is  done  ! 

A   mighty   form   forever   prostrate 

lies, 

And  quenched  fore'er  the  lightnings 
in  those  eyes  ; 

The    tyrant's     arm     has 

won  ; 

And  Caesar  from  a  hundred  wounds  doth  bleed, 
A  hundred  tongueless  mouths  in  anguish  plead. 

There  bows  his  only  friend  ! 
Within  his  arms  he  folds  that  matchless  head, 
And  on  its  brow  his  burning  tears  are  shed  ; 

While  yet  attend 

The  mad,  tumultuous  throng,  and  citrses  ring 
Above  the  clay  they  almost  hailed  a  king. 

And  thou,  laid  low  ! 

To  other  conquests,  then,  thy  spirit  hastes, 
And  leaves  to  me  this  crimson  flood  that  wastes. 

Thou  wil'st  it  so  ! 

And  yet  not  so  ;  thy  spirit  fled,  to  soar 
To  fresher  conquests  on  that  unknown  shore. 


48  POEMS. 

Oh,  ruthless  fate  ! 

Immortal  Caesar  !  whilst  thy  princely  blood 
Thus  pours  along,  beside  that  unknown  flood 

Thy  soul  doth  wait 

To  see  thine  Antony  his  love-vows  keep, 
And  all  thy  foes  to  foul  destniction  sweep. 

Then,  spirit,  rest  ! 

Thy  dear  loved  friend  to  thee  is  not  untrue, 
And  unborn  millions  yet  shall  call  one  true — 

Him,  Antony  ;  and  best 
Of  all  that  noble  band  once  in  thy  train, 
"Who  held  their  loves  as  thine — poor  loves,  how 
vain  ! 

For  Caesar's  love, 

Ye  howling  wolves,  behold  this  piteous  sight  ! 
This  lyre  unstrung — this  sun  robb'd  of  its  Light. 

Nor  high  above, 

His  mighty  arm,  Olympian  Jove's  proud  lance, 
At  Conquest's  voice  shall  ever  more  advance. 

There  low  he  lies  ! 

Ye  worse  than  slaves,  or  hideous  creeping  thing, 
Look  on  his  weeping  wounds.   So,  tears  will  spring 

To  your  stern  eyes  ! 

Oh,  let  them  forth — nor  longer  stay  them  there  ! 
Such  precious  drops  should  temper  my  despair. 


ANTONY'S  LAMENT  OVER  CMSAR.  49 

And  I  may  speak  ? 

Then  let  great  Caesar's  virtues  be  my  theme — 
That  endless  chain  of  deeds,  that,  like  a  dream 

Of  winter's  night,  would  seek 
To  paint  its  vivid  pictures  on  the  brain, 
And  then  in  envy  paint  them  o'er  again. 

Was  he  not  great 

While  yet  in  untried  vouth,  by  stern  decree, 
Dread"  Scylla  wills  :  "  Cornelia's  love  for  me  "? 

He  spurns  his  high  estate  ; 
And  for  her  love  the  tyrant's  land  is  flown, 
And  chastely  Caesar  waits  for  her  alone. 

See  with  what  store 

From  all  the  great  and  wise  he  decks  his  mind, 
The  fruit  of  which  he  showers  on  his  kind  ; 

How  he  implores 

Of  Rome's  propitious  gods  that  hour  to  greet 
That  sees  the  world  sit  smiling  at  her  feet. 

Undaunted,  calm, 

He  sweeps  unconquered  ever  ;  at  his  name 
Exhaustless  spoil  and  lands  grace  proud  Rome's 
fame. 

Hers  is  the  palm  : 

The  East,  Spain,  Gaul,  and  Britain,  each  the  prize 
To  this  resplendent  bolt  Tarpeius  flies. 


50  POEMS. 

For  Rome  and  you, 

Once  happy  Romans  !     Can  your  list'ning  ears 
Be  dulled  so  soon  ?    Flow  on,  ye  pitying  tears, 

And  prove,  if  true, 

The  love  ye  bore  ;  and,  sorrowing  torrents,  meet 
To  wash  these  stains  from  wondering  Pornpey's 
feet! 

Could  but  a  glow 

This  brazen  statue's  eyes  now  animate, 
Think  ye  that  they  would  triumph  o'er  the  state 

Of  their  great  foe  ? 

The  noble  Pompey's  eyes  would  scorn  the  deed, 
And  his  great  heart  for  this  poor  hart  would 
bleed. 

Look  on  his  brow 

Where,  at  your  bidding,  I  the  laurel  placed  ; 
See  how  his  soul  its  beatity  there  has  traced  ! 

Where  roams  it  now  ? 
Soft !  let  me  in  his  crimson  raiment  fold 
The  god-like  face  we  may  no  more  behold. 

Here  let  them  rest — 

The  mighty  arms  a  thousand  tribes  that  smote, 
The  skillful  hands,  his  deathless  records  wrote, — 

Stilled  with  his  breast ! 

The  impious  thieves  have  dared  to  force  and  rob  ; 
The  noble  Caesar's  soul  has  ceased  to  throb. 


ALONE. 

Aye,  now  ye  weep  ! 

Tumultuous  passions  wrap  your  souls  in  fire  ! 
Let  Furies  will  these  traitors  in  their  ire 

TantaliTs'  sleepless  sleep  ! 
While  all  true  Romans  shudder  as  they  tell 
How  liberty,  by  Brutus'  dagger,  fell  ! 


51 


ALONE. 

'-  'VE  wandered  by  the  whispering  sea, 
For  it  the  world  beside  forsaking  ; 
™  Its  joyous  echoes  spoke  to  me — 

They    were     not    wild    waves    idly 
breaking. 

And  yet, 

Tho'  oft  I've  heard  them  call  before, 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  yore. 

I've  stood  upon  the  golden  crest, 

And  watched  the  twilight's  gathering  shade  ; 
The  summer  sun  sank  to  his  rest, 

Where  all  his  glimmering  glories  fade. 


>  POEMS. 

'Tis  strange — 

Tho'  oft  I've  seen  his  rays  before, 
The  light  was  not  the  light  of  yore. 

Dear  Heart  !  'tis  since  thou  art  not  by. 

The  sea's  glad  echoing  voice  was  thine  ; 
The  glories  of  that  western  sky, 

Thy  bright  eyes  winged  back  to  mine. 

Ah,  yes  ! 

It  was  thy  presence  near;  me  there  / 
That  made  the  summer  scene  so  fair. 


THE  LOST  TEEASUEE. 

< 

'iTHIN  a  hall  of  royal  state 

With  richest  canopies  o'erspread- 

$&JP&  ing. 

§P     Where  sculptured  shapes  in  ambush 

wait, 
A    nickering    lamp    its  beams   is 

shedding ; 
But  scarce  its  quivering  ray  reveals 
The  form  that  thro'  the  stillness  steals. 


THE  LOUT  TREASURE. 


53 


The  sovereign  of  a  thousand  lords, — 

A  monarch,  whose  soft-breathed  command 
Would  gather  to  his  glittering  boards 

The  brave  and  loveliest  of  the  land, — 
Bows  there  in  contemplative  mood, 
Akin  to  the  deep  solitude. 

Hour  upon  hour  has  slowly  pressed, 
When  from  his  posture  of  despair 
He  rises  now,  and  from  his  breast 

He  frees  the  hands  long  clasped  there  ; 
And  from  his  brow  he  lifts  the  band, 
And  tears  the  signet  from  his  hand. 

Then  through  the  court  the  signal  speeds, 

Calling  wise  counsellors  to  attend, 
To  reap  the  fruit  that  wisdom  breeds, 
That  age  and  ripe  experience  lend. 
Now  to  the  summons'  echoing  sound 
The  fathers  quickly  gather  round. 

"Wait we,  great  master,  thy  command,'* 

Sulpuciamis  'twas  that  spake, 
"Name  but  thy  wish  by  sea  or  land, 
'Soever  course  our  ensigns  take — 
Be  it  cold  Caledonia's  heath, 
Or  realms  of  burning  sands  beneath  ; 


54 


POEMS. 


4 '  From  fair  Campania's  vino-clad  plain  ; 

Along  the  broad  Flaminian  Way, 
Where  wide-spread  Orient's  soft  domain 

Welcomes  thine  undisputed  sway. 
Hast  not  the  thing  thou  wouldst  possess, 
Breathe  but  its  name — the  wish  express." 

The  monarch  hears  with  mien  benign, 

Views  long  the  vassals  at  his  feet, 
Leaves  his  high  state  with  gracious  sign, 

And  kindly  words  their  fealty  greet. 
"O  fathers  !  not  what  I  would  taste, 
Biit  mine  I  fain  would  have  replaced. 

"For  as  the  sun  old  Tiber  sank  beneath, 

A  prize  had  flown,  dearer  than  captive  train, 
Or  sparkling  jewel  princes  may  bequeath  : 

A  day  has  passed,  and  I  have  lived  in  vain — 
No  trophy  from  the  field  of  knowledge  won, 
No  thought  engrossed,  no  virtuous  action  done. " 


WOULD  DAY  WERE  COME.  55 


WOULD  DAY  WEEE  COME  ! 


OULD  day  were  come  !  ah,  me  !  I  can 
not  bear 

To  welcome  now  the   silvery  moon 
light  beams  ; 
Nor  listen  to  the   strains  that  fill  the 

air, — 

Like  some  unfeeling  mirth  to  me  it 
seems. 


And  ye,  bright  stars,  hide  your  reproachful  light 
That   fain   would   win   me   from  my   darling's 
glance. 

Do  ye  not  know  her  eyes  are  dimmed  to-night — 
Her  laughing  eyes,  that  oft  niy  heart  entrance  ? 

Ye  fragrant  winds,  so  gently  stealing  by, 

I  think  ye  know  my  darling's  voice  is  stilled  ; 

That  her  sweet  song  has  vanished  in  a  sigh — 
Her  ringing  voice  that  oft  my  bosom  thrilled. 

Until  her  eyes  shall  light  again  with  glee, 
And  silvery  sweet  the  music  of  her  voice 

In  wavering  notes  conies  o'er  the  air  to  me, 
No  charm  have  ye  that  can  my  heart  rejoice. 


56  POEMS. 

Would   day  were  come  to  speed  night's   shades 

away  ! 
What   cheer  bring   ye,   ah,    me,    ye  wearying 

hours  ? 

She  loved  the  day,  the  bright  and  glorious  day, 
Its  sunny  warmth,  its  singing  birds  and  flowers. 


DEUS  MEUS  !  DEUS  MEUS  ! 

(Inscription  on  a  memorial  clrarch  bell.) 

1    BEING,  sweUing, 

Falls  there  not  upon  thine  ear, 

Whispering,  telling, 
In  an  accent  deep  and  clear  ; 

And  ever  thus — 
Deus  Meus  !  Deus  Meus  ! 

Sweetly  ringing 
In  dewy  glades,  at  early  morn  ; 

Its  passion  bringing 
Into  my  thought,  and  lightly  borne  ; 

And  ever  thus — 
Deus  Meus  !  Deus  Meus  ! 


57 


DEUS  MEUS!    DEUS  MEUS ! 

Booming,  clanging 
O'er  hastening  crowds— in  maddening  strife  ; 

Lowering,  hanging, 
A  pendant  blade,  that  parts  some  life  ; 

And  ever  thus — - 
Dens  Meus  !  Deus  Metis  ! 


Wavering,  stealing 
Where  pleasure  reigns,  where  beauty  glances  ; 

Softly  appealing 
To  some  breast  that  love  entrances  ; 

And  ever  thus — 
Deus  Meus  !  Deus  Meus  ! 

Clustering,  thronging 
To  Meditation's  thoughtful  hour  ; 

Waiting,  longing 
For  some  behest  beyond  her  power  ; 

And  ever  thus — 
Deus  Meus  !  Deus  Meus  ! 

Whispering,  sighing 
Some  cadence  while  the  spirit  sleeps  ; 

Sinking,  dying, 
As  Care,  forgotten,  waits  and  weeps  ; 

And  ever  thus — 
Deus  Meus  !  Deus  Meus  ! 


THE  REVELLERS. 

HEN  this  old  world  was  young, 
(A  weary,  weary  while  away) 
'Tis  said,  mid  vales  and  woods  among, 
The  bright-eyed  fairy  folk  did  play ; — 
That  from  their  tiny,  secret  bowers, 
When  shone  the  earliest  moonlight 

beam, 

They  came  to  dance  away  the  hours, 
And  pleasure  reigned  supreme. 

'Tis  said  such  pastimes  ne'er  were  seen  ; 

For,  as  they  formed  and  madly  danced, 
From  every  flower  on  mead  and  green 

On  which  the  silvery  moonlight  glanced, 
Some  kinsman  of  each  little  sprite 

Would  break  the  portals  of  his  cell, 
And  join  the  revels  of  delight, — 

So  'witching  was  the  spell. 

Thus  passed  the  hours  of  dear  delight 
Till  softest  Zephyr's  whispering  sigh 

Bade  each  sweet  fairy  say  good  night, — 
For  blushes  tinge  the  sky  ; 

Then  round  their  queen,  clasped  hand  to  hand, 
They  still  the  music  of  their  bells 


TO   A    FRIEND. 

And  fade,  when  sinks  her  dewy  wand, 
To  their  own  woods  and  dells. 

Biit  these  revellers  far  have  fled, 

(The  world's  so  very  wise  and  cold) 
And  tho'  the  same  soft  beams  are  shed 

No  flowery  portal  will  unfold. 
Perhaps  from  yon  bright  distant  star, 

Or  from  some  secret,  deepest  glade, 
The  night  winds  bear  the  tale  afar 

Of  fairy  revellings  play'cl. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

EIENDSHIP,    them   phantom  or   a 

dream  ! 

Hweet  fancy  of  an  idle  hour  ! 
How  welcome  thy  professions  seem, 
And   fragrant   as   the   tenderest 
flower  ! 


Friendship,  thou  bubble  rich  in  hue, 
That  011  the  summer  air  is  borne  ! 

Is  thy  bright  substance  ever  true  ? 

Wouldst  glow  of  thy  pretences  shorn  ? 


60  POEMS. 

Friendship,  thou  calm,  unruffled  lake  ! 

'Twould  seem  that  thou  must  ever  sleep  : 
Yet,  should  the  gentlest  zephyr  wake, 

Wouldst  thou  that  fleeting  promise  keep  ? 

With  such  poor,  undeserving  arts 

Do  transient  friendship's  show  beguile  ; 

A  glow  the  summer  day  imparts, 
But  shuns  the  adverse  wintry  trial. 

Then  how  complacently  I  view 

Thy  friendship,  firm,  unshaken,  sure, — 

Since  passing  years  have  told  how  trne 
And  changeless  it  can  be — and  pure. 

Should  calm  contentments  guide  my  thought, 
And  symbols  in  my  features  trace, 

I  ever  found,  when  there  I  sought, 
A  quick  reflection  in  thy  face. 

And  when,  with  cares  and  doubts  beset, 
I  free  my  proud,  imperious  will, 

Thou  dost  not  spurn  me  then,  but,  yet, 
Thou  shed'st  a  tear — and  lov'st  me  still. 


Mr  AROOS1ES. 


61 


MY   ARGOSIES. 

Y  beautiful  fleet  has  sailed  away, — 
I  watched   them,   standing   on  the 

sand, — 
My  white- winged  fleet  will  come  home 

some  day, 
Bringing  me  treasures  from  every 

land  ; 
For  I've  made  them  promise — the  winds  and  the 

gales — 
That  they'll  lovingly  watch  o'er  my  fleet  that  sails. 

Over  the  tumbling  and  stormy  deep, 

My  well- manned  fleet  will  laugh  to  scorn 

(Well-manned,  if  wishes  can  vigils  keep) 
The  warning  wrecks  that,  beaten  and  torn, 

Drift  ever  and  ever,  but  warning  in  vain. 

My  fleet  shall  come  sailing  home  over  the  main. 

My  sturdiest  ship  hath  ribs  of  oak 

And  deep  full  lines,  to  buffet  the  shore. 

What  cares  she  for  the  whirlwind's  stroke  V 
Smiling  she'll  welcome  old  ocean's  roar. 

Sometimes,  I  fear  me,  she  floats  too  deep 

To  bring  me  the  treasures  I  fain  would  reap. 


62  I'OEMS. 

I  sometimes  fear  for  my  fairest  bark, 

That  I've  fashioned  the  happiest  sea  to  sail; 

To  gain  it  the  ocean's  so  wide  and  dark, 

Her  sails  are  of  silk  and  her  masts  are  so  frail. — 

My  heart  seems  to  tell  me,  from  yon  golden  shore, 

My  bark  will  ne'er  come  to  add  wealth  to  my  store. 

In  my  fleet  are  many  of  graceful  form, — 

I  am  sure  they  will  swiftly  skim  the  seas, — 
But  then  will  they  watch  for  the  pitiless  storm  '? 
Ah,  me  !  they   are   trimmed   for  the   balmiest 

breeze  ; 

I  fear  that  my  fair-weather  sailors  will  sleep  : — 
Then  my  sailors  and  treasures  ne'er  will  come  from 
the  deep. 

Some  day  thro'  the  golden,  summer  sea 

(Till  then,  how  oft  shall  I  seek  this  shore  ?) 
My  white-winged  fleet  will  be  wafted  to  me, 

With  its  priceless  treasures.     I'll  tell  them  o'er  ; 
Then  should  fortune,  sweet  love,  idle  joys,  soothe 

my  breast, 

In  some  calm,   peaceful   port   may   my  Argosies 
rest. 


THE   WAGKR.  63 

THE   WAGER. 

[Their  debts  of  honor  were  discharged  with  the  utmost 
fidelity.  The  desperate  gamester,  who  had  staked  his 
person  and  liberty  on  the  last  throw  of  the  dice,  sub 
mitted  to  the  decision  of  fortune,  and  suffered  himself  to 
he  bound  and  sold  into  remote  slavery  by  his  weaker 
but  more,  successful  antagonist.] 

UEVIAN,  bring  the  shameful  chain 

For  my  hands — my  heart  has  fled  ! 
Bind  this  too  strong  arm  again — 

Its  pulseless  current  is  not  dead  : 
The  flame  my    bold    sire's   deeds  in 
trenched, 

Within  this  bosom  brightly  burns. 
Would  my  dark  destiny  had  quenched 
The  fate  my  spirit  spurns  ! 

Comrade  !  I  thought  to  -win  thy  gold  ; 

But,  comrade,  all  I  have  is  thine  ; 
And  more  besides,  a  thousand  fold — 

For  gold  I  waged  myself  divine. 
For  idle  hours  I  sought  it  not, — 

The  mountain  doth  reward  my  toil, — 
I  thcmght  to  bless  a  fair  one's  lot, 

And  deck  her  with  thy  spoil. 


64  POEMS. 

Northman  !  take  this  eaglet's  plume. 

Thou  shalt  lead  my  chosen  band, 
Exalted  chief.     Helvetia's  doom — 

To  languish  in  a  stranger's  land. 
Yet  from  thee  one  last  boon  I  crave, — 

Then  easier  shall  my  bondage  seem, — 
In  the  fierce  onset  let  it  wave — 

There  let  its  pinions  stream  ! 

Warrior  !  when  from  our  forest-north, 

At  signal  from  that  fluttering  crest, 
Her  fair,  unnumbered  sons  steal  forth 

O'er  Danube's  spotless,  frozen  breast, — 
I'll  listen  to  her  muttering  sound, 

While  dazzliug  sunbeams  glance  : 
Then  a  proud  freeman's  soul  shall  bound— 

I'll  claim  my  plume  and  lance  ! 


THE  FORTUNA  TE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLESS'D.  65 

THE   FOBTUNATE   ISLES   OF   THE 
BLESS'D. 

• 

jjjj^AY,  where  are  the  far  and  the  famed 
blessed  isles, 

r        Where  the  voice  of  the  murmuring  water 
beguiles, 

And  the  voyager's  ever  at  rest ; 
Where  music's  the  song  of  the  guardian 

seas, 

Gently  borne  on  the  tale-bearing  wings  of   the 
breeze — 

0  !  where  are  the  Isles  of  the  Bless'd  ? 

Just   beyond,   where    uplifted    the   great   pillars 

tower, 

Ever  loiters  Atlanticus'  vigilant  power, 
Lurking  low  in  remorseless  quest ; 
If  I  kneAV  not  his  name,  and  how  fatal  his  wiles, 
Enticed  by  his  azurine  hue  and  his  smiles, 

1  should  seek  for  the  Isles  of  the  Bless'd. 

Perchance,  'neath  yon  dreaded  and  frown -bearing 

height, 
Undaunted,  some  bark  takes  her  perilous  flight, 

By  the  winds  and  the  waters  caress'd. 
O  !  happy,  that  intrepid,  unbaffled  prow  ! 


66  POEMS. 

O  !  happy,  that  bold,  way -worn  mariuer  now 
Swiftly  nearing  the  Isles  of  the  Bless'd  ! 

Entrancing  the  scenes  that  his  quick  senses  fill, 
As  unchecked,  unrestrained,   deep  in  \ale,   over 

hill, 

His  swift,  flying  footsteps  are  press'd. 
Could  a  scene  ever  fairer  than  this  prospect  rise— 
The  sounds,  the  dark  verdure,  the  fragrant  -swept 

skies, 
Of  these  fam'd  blessed  Isles  of  the  Bless'd  ? 

Shall  Conflict's  dire  din,  be  it  never  so  rude, 
These  lone,  peaceful  latitudes  dare  to  intrude, 

To  jar  on  his  now  fancied  rest  ? 
Shall  cold  Envy  chill  the  friend  once  held  so  near, 
Or  grim  Slander's  pale  apparition  appear 

In  these  far  away  Isles  of  the  Bless'd  ? 

O  !  haste,  blessed  Islander  !  surely  Aving  back 
Some  token  to  guide  thro'  thine  own  furrowed 
track, 

Be  it  ever  the  East  or  the  West ; 
That  I,  undismayed,  truly  searching  my  chart, 
May  find,  O  sweet  bliss  !  in  its  happiest  part, 

The  fortunate  Isles  of  the  Bless'd  ! 


MOTHERLESS.  67 


MOTHERLESS. 


£  NE  eve,  in  fancy's  idle  mood, 
,  I  My  listless  way  alone  pursued, 


^ftjp^  A  C1T  came  low  and  clear. 

It  was,  methought,  the  saddest  sound 
That  ever  yet  its  way  had  found 
To  an  unwilling  ear. 

\ 

Ere  that,  and  often,  I  had  read 

Of  cruel  wars,  and  havoc  spread, 

And  varied  tales  of  woe  ; 
But  turmoils,  flaming  fields,  and  slain, 
Brought  to  iny  bosom  no  such  pain, 

Nor  dimmed  niy  vision  so. 

Transfixed,  I  listened,  if  again 

That  note  should  flutter — but  in  vain, 

I  only  heard  my  heart : 
I  looked,  and  lo  !  a  stately  pile 
To  cheer  dark,  orphaned  childhood's  trial 

Essays  the  parent's  part. 

And  yet,  secure  within  that  fold, 
Unreconciled,  and  uncontrolled, 

Thus  plead  affection's  wants  : 


68  POEMS. 

E'en  there,  with  every  need  supplied, 
Some  vision,  absent  from  its  side, 
The  tender  memory  haunts. 

I  turned,  and  softly  breathed  a  prayer — 
That  none  endeared  to  me  should  share 

Those  hospitable  walls  : 
That  no  tear-stained,  artless  cheek 
Should  there  its  orphaned  pillow  seek, 

As  deeply  darkness  palls. 


DEATH  OF  JULIAN  CHLOBUS. 

OMBADES,  bend  low,  the  certain  hour 
|j|P  draws  near  : 

But,  hasten  to  soever  fate  befalls, 
Death's  summons  unconcernedlyl  hear — 

A  willing  subject  the  destroyer  calls. 
And,  since  humanity  cannot  delay 
The  still,  resistless  voice  that  bids  him 

shape, 
And  since  proud  monarch  cannot  disobey 

The  hand  that  points  the  way  he  would  escape, — 


DEATH  OF  JULIUS  CHLORUS.  69 

Man's  common  lot  is  his — be  surely  dies 

And  leaves  behind  a  pale,  unsightly  frame 
At  length  to  moulder,  whilst  the  spirit  hies 

To  airy  scenes  remote — a  living  flame. 
Then  should  I,  knowing,  rather  not  rejoice 

With  cheerfulness,  content,  and  ready  will  ; 
And  give  my  speedy  answer  to  the  voice 

Most  trustingly,  and  bid  again  be  still 
The  tongue  that  fain  wonld  tempt  an  unsought 
stay  ? 

Let  mine  be  wisdom's  part,  purer  and  better. 
A  cheerful  acquiescence  spurns  delay, 

And  well  befits  the  honest,  ready  debtor. 
So,  this  unstable  body  frees  its  soul — 

Onward  it  speeds,  and  ever  joyously 
With  other  thronging  myriads,  to  the  goal ; 

And,  once  admitted  there,  forever  free 
From  lingering,  irksome  doubts.     How  poor  and 
vain 

The  fragile  casement  we  inhabit  here 
To  that  celestial,  gleaming  form  we  gain  : 

How  gross  its  once  prized  attributes  appear  1 
Should  brooding,  deep  regrets  for  this  estate 

The  weary  evening-hour  of  age  employ  ? 
Nay,  rather  is  it  pleased  to  separate 

From  ceaseless  labor  for  the  realms  of  joy. 
The  dearest,  fondest  transports  that  await 


70  POEMS. 

The  soul  of  purest,  proved  piety, 
Are  unapproached,  save  through  the  single  gate 

That  shuts  without  the  world's  anxiety. 
Be  not  this  Avelcome,  coming  stroke  bewept, 

Since  honors,  even  to  satiety, 
The  gracious  gods  have  brought  me  to  accept 

With  fair  renown.     Ambition's  cup  is  filled 
WTith  unthought  richness.     History's  page, 

Unsullied,  bears  no  blood-stained  trace 
Of  cruel  deeds  ;  no  tyrant's  withering  rage 

Taints  o'er  my  name  to  live,  and  I  displaced. 
So,  since  my  journey  ended  free  from  guile, 

Welcome  the  word  !     Contented  with  my  loss, 
Undaunted,  death  I  Adew,  and  with  a  smile. 

Untarnished  and  yet  free  from  dark  remorse, 
Conscious  I  am  how  purely  hath  been  kept 

The  trust  committed  by  the  divine  poAver  ; 
How, waking, 'twas  my  thought ;  and,  Avhen  I  slept, 

It  Avas  the  vision  of  the  deep,  night-hour  ; 
And  undissembling,  often  have  I  Avept, 

Lest  undefiled  I  should  not  yield  my  doAver. 
Then,  how  serenely  may  I  not  reflect 

Upon  the  crown  that  Avaits  beyond  the  tide  ! 
And  what  fair  portion  may  I  not  expect, 

When  in  its  peaceful  Avays  my  steps  abide  ! — 
Ever  detesting,  in  this  restless  sphere, 

The  despot's  maxims,  Avhose  fair  Avords  may  hide 


DEATH  OF  JULIUS  CHLORUS.  -j\ 

Oppression's  horrid  hand,  that  quick  uprears 

To  crush  so'er  unjust  suspicion  spied, 
And  knows  no  spot  uncurst  by  idle  fears, 

And  falls  a  victim  to  his  own  vain  pride. 
My  every  act  to  prudence  gave  quick  ear, 

Or  from  experience  craved  a  guiding  word  ; 
Justice,  my  jewel,  knew  nor  threat  nor  tear  ; 

Honor  but  due,  the  chaplet  saw  conferred. 
How  have  I  labored  in  the  cause  of  peace, 

If,  haply,  Peace  brought  in  her  smiling  train 
The.  people's  weal,  and  Nature's  glad  increase  ; 

That  chief  reward, — since  Ceres  sought  in  vain 
All  art  aids  not,  and  wanton  luxuries  cease. 

But,  did  the  rude  barbarian  lift  to  smite — 
A  long  farewell  to  her  endearing  charms, 

Till  he  his  dark  recesses  sought  in  flight, 
There  to  bewail  the  soldier's  ponderous  arms, 

Invincible  and  boundless  in  their  might 
E'en  tho'  the  Fates  had  whispered  their  alarms, 

And  I  had  learned  by  divination's  art 
That  I  nmst  fall  from  battle's  hurtful  harms, 

And  with  immortal  heroes  claim  my  part. 
O  this  hath  been  my  soul's  oft-told  desire  ! 

For  now  no  traitor's  steel  within  this  heart 
Bids  it  be  still, — no  lingering  ills  aspire 

By  slow,  insidious  measures,  dealt  unseen, 
This  tenement  to  bathe  in  quenchless  fire, 


j2  POEMS. 

And  blast  to  sterile  boughs  the  oak  once  green  ; 
But,  like  a  fortressed  and  sustained  tower, 

That  hath  withstood  beleaguering,  warlike  foes,. 
Heel  to  the  dust  before  some  honored  power, 

And  in  my  ruin  bury  all  my  woes. 


ASLEEP. 

PAUSED  where  Innocency  slept,  — 
It  was  the  deep  and  silent  night, — 

I  lingered,  as  the  moments  swept. 

Sweet  watch  I  with  the  angel  kept. 
Fair  picture  !      Page  of   pure  de 
light  ! 


We  smiled,  because  our  darling  smiled. 

Some  joyous  pastime  of  the  day, 
By  which  her  rosy  hours  are  whiled, 
E'en  'cross  that  stream  her  heart  beguiled, 

O'er  memory  held  its  tender  sway. 

We  sighed,  because  our  darling  sighed. 
Some  childhood's  care  within  her  breast, 


HOLLYWOOD.  73 

Unbidden,  dared  to  float  the  tide 
And  bear  its  shadow  to  her  side, 
To  mar  that  calm  and  perfect  rest. 

And,  nightly,  at  that  sacred  place 

My  heart's  o'erflowing  raptures  pour  : 
No  burning  lines  that  poets  trace 
For  me  have  charms,  when  that  fair  face 
Portrays  its  sweet  and  varying  lore. 


HOLLYWOOD. 

{Hollywood  Cemetery,  Richmond,  Virginia,  where   lie   buried 
five  thousand  Confederate  dead.) 


Hollywood,    within  thy    peaceful 

shade 
MN     A.  stranger  comes,  and  muses  o'er  the 


0 

scene. 
Thou  heed'st  not  tho'  a  wanderer's  feet 

have  strayed, 

Lured  by  thy  robe  of  autumn's  variant 
sheen. 

Fair  Hollywood,  of  those  who  lowly  sleep, 

There  is  not  one  who  softly  called  him  friend  ; 


74 


POEMS. 


The  accents  of  his  name,  no  tongue  may  keep, 
Of  all  \vho  to  their  rest  thy  paths  shall  wend. 

Fair  Hollywood,  the  countless,  unmarked  mounds 
That,  undulating,  cloy  thy  widening  vale, 

Impen  forever  in  their  chilling  bounds 

The  wearied  part  that  steps  not  o'er  Death's 
pale. 

Fair  Hollywood,  dread  memories  of  that  past, 
That  gave  these  treasures  to  thy  cold  embrace,. 

No  dark  aspersions  on  their  fate  shall  cast, 

Nor  bring  an  untoward  presence  near  thy  place. 

Fair  Hollywood,  thy  crimson,  deeply  hued, 
Tells  of  no  strife  diffusing  o'er  the  plain  ; 

Thy  waving  arms  speak  of  no  steel  imbued. 
Contending  passions  sleep  in  thy  domain. 

Fair  Hollywood,  the  stranger's  eyes  now  turn 
To  low,  sequestered  spots  where  rest  the  dead, 

In  massive  tomb  with  ostentatious  urn 

And  glowing  transcripts  of  their  tenants  spread. 

Fair  Hollywood,  when  in  his  distant  home 
Pure  recollections  of  thy  features  rise, 

'Tis  not  of  these  he'll  write  in  memory's  tome, 
Not  of  thy  grandeur,  nor  the  great  and  wise. 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  ALARIC. 


75 


No  ;  'tis  that  vine-decked  pile  the  sky  aspires — 
A  fostered  trophy  memory  bears  from  thee  ; 

Mid  those  who  sank  beneath  the  withering  fires, 
Memoria  in  ceterna  shall  it  be. 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  ALARIC. 

j||  COULD  Melpomene  my  tongue  inspire  ! 

O  for  Apollo's  all-responsive  lyre  ! 
f^*  Then  should  my  soul  no  slothful  utter 
ance  brook, 
And  deathless  write  my  words  in  Clio's 

book  ; 
Then  should  I  dare  to  climb  the  sacred 

mount 

And  drink  with  her  the  sweet  Castalian  fount. 
Gifted  by  these,  from  Hellas'  every  vale, 
A  voice  should  spring  to  cry  afar  the  tale 
Of  her  dread  death  ;  from  the  Saronic  bay, 
Where  young  Hyperion  greets  the  earliest  day, 
To  the  far  point  that  tells  the  Arcamian  plain 
Where  sinks  his  steed  to  spring  refreshed  again  ; 


76  POEMS. 

From  snow-crowned  Ossa,  where  the  gods  abide — 
Fair  realm  of  Tempe,  Peneus  flood  beside — 
Borne  on  the  soft,  Argolian  zephyr's  wings, 
E'en  to  the  foam  whence  dark  Cythera  springs, 
Should  rise  the  dirge,  and,  in  its  plaintive  moan 
Toll  of  this  land — its  glories — glories  flown. 

Could  the  heroic  Theseus  in  his  dreams, 
Have  known  that  ever  Phoebus'  darting  beams 
Should   show  this  sight ;  his  oft  stained  sword 

that  foiled 

The  Marathonian  herd,  whose  rage  despoiled 
Athena's  state — had  never  idly  slept, 
But  on  Parnassus'  brow  its  vigils  kept. 

Had  divine  Pallas, — she  whose  skillful  hand 
Brought  peace  and  beauty  to  her  mighty  land, 
When  forth  from  Zeus'  browr,  with  war-like  mien, 
All  armed  she  sprang, — had  Pallas  then  but  seen 
The  thread  that  Clotho's  ever-turning  reel 
Spun  for  her  love,  her  hand  had  stayed  the  wheel. 
No  spirit  wandering  those  fair  fields  along 
Shall  by  its  will  or  wishes  fly  the  throng, 
Xor  bend  to  Lethe's  torrent,  and  lift  up 
The  mystic  draught  that  sleeps  within  the  cup  : 
For  what  purged  soul  would   crave  a  sight  like 
this, 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  ALAKIC.  77 

Or  bore,  renewed,  forget  Elysium's  bliss  ? 


Beliold  Alaric,  scourge  and  dread  of  kings, 
With  high  disdain  turns  from  the  war-worn  wastes; 

Upon  th'  impatient  steed  in  armor  springs, 
And  leads  the  way  his  ruthless  hand  has  traced. 

See  at  his  back  the  wild  Borysth'ian  horde, 
Strong  in  their  pride  and  eager  for  the  fray, 

Forth  from  each  fastness,  as  a  deluge  poured, 
O'er  ah1  the  peopled  vales  that  stretch  away — 

From   high  Olympus,   capped   with  glistening 

snows. 
From  Achaian  marts  and  Elis'  sacred  plains, 

Beyond  where  Corinth's  sparkling  water  flows 
And  o'er  its  bosom  waft  Arcadian  strains. 

On  come  the  hosts  !  no  power  to  impede  : 
Their  eager  steps  approach  the  Malian  bay, 

Like  foul  Chimaera  in  hot  rage  and  speed, 
While  Bellerophon  sleeps,  no  hand  to  stay 

The  march  victorious  :  mount  the  glorious  rock 
Where  the  brave  hundreds,  every  breast  a  tower, 

Kept  well  the  pass,  nor  yielded  to  the  shock 
Of  Persian  cohort  till  death  quelled  their  power. 

O  sprang  no  virtue  from  so  bold  a  sire 
To  kindle  spark  of  ardor  in  the  son  ? 

Alas  !  there  glows  within  no  valorous  fire  ! 


78  POEMS. 

Ths  god-like  race  had  died  ere  but  begun  ; 

And  in  their  craven  breasts  the  patriot  flame 
Is  of  a  pale  and  feeble,  unreal  hue  : — 

Sparta  lives  not,  and  honor's  but  a  name. 

Now  doth  the  deluge  stifle  in  its  rage 

The  world's  great  light  ;  the  surging  waves  o'er 

sweep 
The  best  wrought  deed  of  mind,  of  warrior,  sage  : 

With  cruel  joy  the  barbarous  gleaners  reap. 
Athena,  from  her  god-abiding  rock, 

Lifts  up  her  tearful  eyes,  and  lifts  to  see 
Her  sister,  fair  Corinthus,  meet  the  shock  ; 

But  looks  in  vain — the  spoilers  hear  no  plea.— 
Go,  tell,  ^Eolus,  in  thy  winged  flight, 
How  Hellas'  day  has  changed  to  endless  night  ! 


THE  PLEDGE. 


THE  PLEDGE. 


79 


OOD  friend,  and  wilt  thou  say, 
When  this,   my  presence,  here    shall 

coldly  lie, 

That  in  this  still,  lone  way 
Thy    feet,    by   fondest    intuition,    oft 

shall  hie ; 

E'en  tho'  I  be  not  here — and  know 
well  why  ? 

Nay,  stay  that  glistening  tear  ! 
'Twas  but  my  thought  of  what — ah  !  what  may  be; 

'Twas  breathed,  for  thou  art  near  ; 
My  thought  led  awe  afar,  then  back  to  thee 
Unfettered  came — save  with  my  heart's  one  plea. 

See  this  unprospered  flower  ! 
The  dawn's  glad  salutation  saw  it  blithe  and  fair. 

'Tis  eve's  young  hour  ; 

Some  churlish  hand  hath  left  its  impress  there. 
Mayhap,  so  unforeseen,  my  own  sad  share. 

Say  such  be  death's  acquest. 
If,  for  my  bosom,  I  thy  vow  achieve, 

And  for  thine — my  behest  ; 
If  thou  wilt  of  me  fondest  thoughts  unreave, 
His  mandate  come — I'll  hence — nor  idly  grieve. 


8o  POEMS. 

And,  when  I  pass  away, 

Thou'lt   seek   rny   semblance  in   some   friend   of 
thine  ; 

And  with  him  here  thou'lt  stray  ; 
Teaching,  with  sweetest  intonation,  that  was  mine, 
That   he   may,    when   thon   sleep'st,    our    names 
intwine. 


ALONG  THE   STREAM. 

'HIS  is  the  bubbling,  laughing  brook. 

Recall  that  wanton  summer  day 
When  we  harassing  care  forsook, 

And  woo'd  its  lone,  meandering  way. 
How  like  some  blended,  fading  dream, 
The  day  we  fared  along  the  stream  ! 


And  here  the  gaily  mottled  bank  ! 

Some  fate  each  nodding  daisy  said 
When  thou,  fair  priestess  Vesta,  sank 

And  I  assumed  assent  or  pled. 
How  real,  yet  how  perverse,  now  seem 
Our  fancies  told  along  the  stream  ! 


ALONG   THE  STREAM. 

'Twas  here  we  wove  the  royal  crown, 

O'er-studded  from  our  perfumed  store  ; 
And,  for  bright  jewels,  sought  ad  own 

Where  on  its  breast  our  brooklet  bore 
Great  gems  :   Did  Indus  of  the  Treasure  deem 
Her  realm  outshone  along  this  stream  ? 

Here,  we  the  harmless  ford  essayed  : 

But  then  how  harmful  it  appeared  ! 
How  coyly  did'st  enjoin — delayed 

To  tempt  its  hurrying  course  ;  and  feared 
To  ope  thy  tenderest  eyes,  whose  gleam 
O'er-tided  him  Avho  spann'd  the  stream. 

Yes  !    'tis  the  gurgling,  bubbling  brook. 

Soon,  soon  'twill  be  the  placid  river. 
Keep  in  thy  heart  our  fair- day  look— 

My  happiest  clay  —  and  thou  the  giver. 
How  like  a  cherished,  fadeless  dream — 
The  day  we  fared  along  the  stream  ! 


82 


rosus. 


MESSAGES. 

HAT  is  tlie  song  the  Oriole  sings, 
As  she  wings  —  as  she  wings  ? 

home  to  the  loftiest  bough  shall 

hold,— 
For  my  note  is  harsh  and  none  will 

heed,  — 
That  afar  may  be  seen  my  vestment  of 

gold; 

For  who  so  gorgeous  in  wood  or  mead  ? 
This  is  the  message  the  Oriole  brings, 
As  away  to  her  swinging  home  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Linnet  sings, 
As  she  Avings  —  as  she  wings  ? 
My  note's  of  the  sweetest  ;  my  heart  is  warm  ; 

I  can  brook  no  fetter  ;  the  hawthorn  hedge 
Is  my  sunshine  home  ;  for  the  wintry  storm 
I  haste  with  my  mates  to  the  glad  sea's  edge  ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Linnet  brings, 
As  away  to  her  perfumed  home  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Cuckoo  sings, 
As  she  wings  —  as  she  wings  ? 
I  have  found  me  a  home  in  some  borrowed  nest  ; 
I'll  away  and  proclaim  a  warning  call 


MESSAGES.  83 

With  a  clamorous  note  from  my  swelling  breast — 
The  bright-bowed  torrent  that  soon  must  fall ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Cuckoo  brings, 
As  away  o'er  the  ripening  harvest  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Mead-lark  sings, 
As  she  wings — as  she  wings  ? 
My  home  with  a  joyous  cry  I  gain  : 

Of  all  I  have  chosen  the  meadow's  brink  ; 
And  my  fledgelings  sport  down  the  shadowy  lane, 
And  the  odorous  spray  of  the  wild-thyme  drink  ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Mead-lark  brings, 
As  over  the  waving  meadow  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Redstart  sings, 
As  she  wings — as  she  wings  ? 
I  must  tell  you  my  secret  as  hence  I  fly 

To  practice  my  arts  in  the  wood  away  ; 
Tho'  few  bear  such  manifold  charms  as  I, 
No  moment  I  find  for  their  idle  display  ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Redstart  brings, 
As  away  to  the  moss-grown  beech  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Blackbird  sings, 
As  she  wings — as  she  wings  ? 
In  the  lonely  wood,  in  a  plaintive  tone 

Of  deep,  piire  warblings,  I  breathe  my  tale 


84  POEMS. 

To  my  listening  mate  ;  then  he  carols  alone, 
And  with  answering  echo  gladdens  the  vale  ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Blackbird  brings, 
As  away  to  the  darkening  thicket  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  brown  Thrush  sings, 
As  she  wings— as  she  wings  ? 
At  morn  and  at  eve  shall  your  heart  be  stirred, 

For  who  so  hears  it  will  love  my  song  ; 
By  day  I  must  hide  where  the  rivulet's  heard, 
In  my  favorite  haunt,  as  it  pours  along  ! 

This  is  the  message  the  brown  Thrush  brings, 
As  away  to  her  shaded  hollow  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Redbreast  sings, 
As  she  wings — as  she  wings  ? 
Who  follows  the  path  of  the  blast  so  soon, 
Or  lingers  so  long  on  the  crimson  crest  ? 
My  strain  can  the  haughtiest  passion  attune 
To  the  peaceful  lay  of  my  loving  breast ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Redbreast  brings, 
As  away  to  her  mapled  bower  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  the  Mock-bird  sings, 
As  she  wings — as  she  wings  V 

I  have  stolen  a  strain  from  each  carolling  throat, — 
Since  few  will  list  to  my  tuneless  voice, — 


MESSAGES.  85 

And  I  mingle  a  sigh  with  the  lover's  note, 

Or  I  make  from  the  resonant  forest  my  choice  ! 
This  is  the  message  the  Mock-bird  brings, 
As  away  on  her  studious  flight  she  wings. 

What  is  the  song  my  Spirit  sings, 
As  it  wings — as  it  wings  ? 
I  will  seek  some  spot  by  a  woodland  slope, 

Till  the  shining  sun  to  his  rest  shall  wend, 
And  then  I  will  tell  a  sweet  thought  and  hope 
To  the  hark'ning  ear  of  each  plumed  friend  ! 
This  is  the  message  my  Spirit  brings — 
And  its  timorous  flight  to  the  future  wings. 


86  POEMS. 


THE  FOG-BELL. 

E  fog-beU  !  The  fog-bell ! 

List,  as  its  rhythmic  measures  swell! 
The  bell  hangs  by  the  castle  moat 

That  all  who,  wandering,  as  they  near, 
May  catch  its  accents  as  they  float, — 
Soothing  with    hope    each   anxious 

fear, — 
That  all  may  heed  it  well. 


The  fog-beU  !  The  fog-beU  ! 
I've  wondered  whence  its  subtle  spell : 
For  oft,  as  lengthening  shadows  lay, 

I've  mused  (where  it  securely  swung, 
Nor  sped  its  warning  tones  away) 

Upon  its  mute,  and  senseless  tongue, — 
Nor  need  to  heed  it  well. 

The  fog-bell  !  The  fog-bell  ! 
The  weary  captive  in  his  cell 
Hears  it ;  and  knows  the  world  without 

Is  shrouded  in  relentless  mist, — 
Immersed  with  his  sad  soul  in  doubt, — 
And  he,  unseen,  its  thought  dismissed. 
Poor  captive,  heed  it  well  ! 


THE  FOG-BELL.  87 

The  fog-beU  !  The  fog-bell ! 
The  busy  house-wife's  thought  will  dwell 
While  yet  she  holds  her  irksome  round  ; 

And,  as  its  quavers  loiter  there 
She  rests  apart,  and  to  its  sound 

She  joins  her  homely,  unfeigned  prayer. 
Good  house-wife,  heed  it  well  ! 

The  fog-beU  !  The  fog-beU  ! 
How  oft  the  storm-tossed  sailor's  knell  ! 
Long,  rude  days  past  the  hand,  so  skilled, 

Has  guided  on,  from  farthest  climes  : 
Fond  visions  that  his  bosom  thrilled 
Fade  with  its  dreaded,  funeral  chimes. 
Brave  sailor,  heed  it  well ! 

The  fog-bell  !  The  fog-bell  ! 

May  it  another  message  tell  ? 

An  idler  sought  the  shore's  lone  waste 

With  no  concern,  save  careless  thought : 
He  turned  him  thence,  his  heart  o'ertraced 
With  precepts  that  the  fog-bell  taught. — 
Kind  idler,  heed  them  well  ! 


POEMS. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ORIOLE. 

E  mourned  him  by  the  oak-land  way, 
At  wandering  time  thro'  field  and  woldr 
Where  in  his  loveliness  he  lay, 
JO     His  music-breathing  bosom — cold. 

What  need  ?  why  should  the  hunter's. 

shaft 

Make  such  the  victim  of  its  blight  ? 
Who  dreamed  a  zephyr's  breath  could  waft 
So  dread  a  missile  in  its  flight  ? 

Poor,  injured  birdling,  we  deplore 
Thy  timeless  fate  !     Thy  part  in  life 
Was  through  cerulean  realms  to  soar, 
Apart  from  this  unheedful  strife. 

What  lowly  object  here  of  harm 
With  specious  pleadings  won  thine  eye  ? 
To  teach  thee  for  thy  every  charm 
The  world's  return  to  thee — to  die. 

Wonldst  not,  if  mightst,  poor  wanderer,  say 
Of  those  whose  refuge  was  thy  breast  ? 
Bereft,  in  some  deep  vale — away, 
Some  vale  of  Tempe — pure  and  blest. 


THEODORA. 


89 


And,  how  may  lie,  whose  hurtful  hand 
Could  spoil  them  of  their  birthright  dower, 
Presume,  when  he  too  nears  the  strand, 
To  ask  the  tokens  of  His  power 

For  those  whose  accents  are  his  joy, 
With  smiles  responsive  to  his  own  ? 
And,  for  their  sure  defence,  employ 
The  parting  suppliant's  anxious  tone  ? 


THEODORA. 

HE  bell  proclaims  the  race. 

A  potent  monarch's  heart  again  rebounds; 

Ten  thousand  echoing  voices  swell  the 

sounds ; 

And  joy  illumes  each  face. 
On  all-impatient  steeds,  in  bright  array, 
Byzantium's    maids    encounter  for    the 

fray. 


He  sees  them  Avaiting  stand 
For  that  soft  sound  that  bids  them  swiftly  fly  ; 


90  POEMS. 

He  marks  but  one  sweet  face  with  drooping  eye, — 

She  curbs  with  trembling  hand. 
It  seems  amiss  that  her  young,  gentle  life 
Should  find  its  place  in   this  deep,    maddening 
strife. 

Now,  to  their  task  they  spring  ; 
And  onward,  o'er  the  course  a  whirlwind  rushing, 
While  thunders  roll  around,  Hope  Fear  is  hush 
ing  ; 

For  as  the  echoes  ring 

To  joyful  shouts,  he  heeds  but  that  brave  crest 
That  tells  a  timid  maid  leads  all  the  rest. 

On  to  the  goal  they  speed  ! 

With  mighty  stride  each  supple  steed  is  leaping. 
With  mighty  throbs  one  heart  in  time  is  keeping. 

Will  victory  end  the  deed  ? 

Appalling  sight !  she  sinks,  nor  hears  the  storm; — 
Down  in  the  dust  there  lies  a  pale,  fair  form  ! 

Whence  came  that  ardent  plea  ? 
From  him  who  sits  the  throne,  imperial,  proud  ; 
From  him  o'er  yon  bewondered  Cypriot  bowed  ; 

From  heart  of  royalty. 

He  lifts  her  from  the  dust,  ignoble,  lone. — 
She  shares  the  state  majestic — shares  the  throne  t 


THE  CAPE  OF  STORMS.  9 1 

THE  CAPE  OF  STORMS. 


thee,  thou  rambler  o'er  life's  sea  ! 
Some  counsel  with  thee  I  would  seek  : 
For  surely  thou  mayst  whisper  me 
Of  that  far  region,  dark  and  bleak, 
Of  circling  pools  and  shattered  forms- 
Yet  all-seductive  Cape  of  Storms. 


Aye,  once  I  viewed  that  hostile  peak, 
That  promontory's  deep  scarred  side  ; 
I  caught  its  dismal  whirlwind's  shriek 
And  heard  its  caverns  wail,  deride  ; 
And  favored  is  the  bark  that  'scapes 
That  fatal,  stormiest  of  the  capes  ! 

But  say  its  raging  mood  were  stilled  ; 
That  ocean  calmer  aspects  lent  ; 
That  kind,  propelling  breezes  filled 
The  wings  by  many  a  tempest  bent ; 
If  then  his  course  he  deftly  shape 
Might  he  not  round  that  stormiest  cape  ? 

No  hope  !  Forbearance  is  the  snare 
By  which  is  stored  its  sateless  rift  ; 
Fallacious  hopes  soft  breezes  bear 
Enshrouded  in  their  flattering  drift. 


92 


POEMS. 

Soon  its  dissembling  tones  will  teach 
The  terrors  of  that  storm-strewed  beach. 

But,  voyager,  o'er  those  troubled  tides 
Perchance  some  spirit  claims  its  sway, 
And  guilt  in  fairest  presence  hides 
That  those  unversed  shall  surely  stray  ; 
Perchance,  too,  some  rash  rover's  boast 
Now  wafts  him  toward    that    storm-marred 
coast  ? 

E'en  so.     That  fringed  and  ragged  shore, 
Told  by  yon  headland  lifted  up, 
Proclaims  the  fruit  the  vintage  bore — 
Tilled  for  the  Spirit  of  the  Cup. 
Beware,  O  fair  and  cherished  forms, 
That  all-seductive  Cape  of  Storms  ! 


THE  RECLUSE.  93 

THE  RECLUSE. 

OUR  hearts  be  for  the  recluse  unop- 

pressed  ! 

all  poor  mortals   calls  he   himself 
blessed. 

On  no  splenetic  humor  builds  his  hope, 

But  infinite  as  nature  is  its  scope  ; 

Within  his   breast   installs  a   trustiest 

friend 

His  every  act  to  censure  or  commend  ; 
And,  too,  each  secret  motive  quick  reviews. 
Nor  every  slight  indulgence  misconstrues  ; 
The  worth  and  weight  of  action  e'er  computes, 
Restrains  excesses  and  his  harm  disputes  ; 
Upholds  some  cherished  phantom  to  his  gaze, 
And  gives  an  unsought  radiance  to  his  ways, 
And  lustre  to  each  homely  duty  lends — 
Renewing  ever  while  its  glow  expends. 
Felicity  like  this — unquestioned,  pure, 
Devised  by  reason,  fashioned  to  endure, 
The  wisdom  of  his  choice  seems  to  attest  ; 
And  leaves  no  untilled  field  for  vain  request. 

Attend  the  recluse  for  his  day's  long  round. 

At  dawn  forth  from  his  couch  with  joyful  bound, 

To  welcome  coming  day.     The  god  of  sleep 


94 

Bids  speed  him  hence  his  wasteful  watch  to  keep 
O'er  those  enthralled  by  his  alluring  reign, 
Which,  when  confirmed,  he  ever  will  maintain. 
Released  from  bondage,  on  he  takes  his  flight, 
Speeding  the  fading  glories  of  the  night ; 
Impatiently  foretastes  the  lingering  day — 
Chiding  the  motive  for  its  long  delay. 
A  herald  comes  anon,  in  robes  of  state, 
To  speak  the  orb's  approach — resplendent,  great, 
Who   spreads    o'er    earth  a  glittering,    jewelled 

baud,  — 

The  princely  tokens  of  a  royal  hand, — 
Ere  yet  he  hasten  on  with  generous  stealth 
To  share  with  all  his  all-surpassing  wealth. 
On  hies  the  wanderer  in  the  happiest  dawn  ; 
Assumes  as  his  the  teachings  of  the  morn  ; 
Some  clear-writ  line  perceives  at  every  look, 
Or  takes  some  glad  refrain  from  every  brook. 
Mayhap,  his  thought  recalls  some  well-conned  text 
That  at  some  time,  long  past,  its  course  perplexed, 
But  now  has  learned  its  excellence  so  well 
That  though  unsummoned — yet  its  tale  will  tell. 
Thus  on,  till  each  accustomed  trophy  won, 
He  turns  him  homeward.     See  his  day  begun  ! 

Now  to  his  favorite  haunt  for  dear  converse — 
The  silent  realm  of  theme  prolix  and  terse 


THE   KKCLUSE. 


95 


Traced  o'er  the  living  page.     Then,  may  awake 
The  long-stilled  voice  that  there  its  bonds  can 

break 

To  fetch  the  buried  ages  from  the  tomb, 
To  breathe  their  airy  nothingness,  and  bloom 
With  rising  monarchs,  or  with  toppling  king. 
He  views  the  swaying  nations — hears  the  1'ing 
Of  myriad  voices  or  the  deep  despair 
Of  him  whose  every  prospect  once  was  fair  ; 
The  sanctimonious  prelate  and  the  saint 
With  holy  pretence  their  vile  deeds  bepaint,  — 
Abjuring  His  commands  who  set  them  there, — 
To  claim  with  sensual  courts,  dominion's  share  ; 
Or,  their  base  passions  on  some  land  obtrude 
Till  loathsome  things  proclaim  its  solitude  : 
While  their  names  shine  with  proud  prefix  adorned, 
And  praises  said  to  those  whom  Honor  scorned. 
But  these  are  forms  far  banished  to  the  past — 
The  darkening  clouds  that  sunlit  skies  o'ercast  ; 
The  dull,  mean  clods  the  beauteous  gem  withhold, 
Which,  once  removed,  its  virtues  more  unfold. 
A  mighty  phalanx  stand  the  good  and  pure, 
Whose  fair,  ennobling  tenets  shall  endiire 
Till  earth  and  heaven  be  aged  :  these  shall  he  call 
To  peaceful  consultation.     If  befall 
A  mood  to  sorrow,  profit,  or  to  please, 
He'll  find  some  spirit  with  that  mood  agrees. 


96  POEMS. 

The  day  has  flown,  and,  'tis  the  cherished  hour 
He  strays  afar,  beneath  the  sky -pierced  bower, 
And  feels  how  poor  and  lowly  is  his  place 
When  measured  by  the  endless  span  of  space. 
From  yon  etherial,  vasty  realm  afar, 
There  comes  a  wearied  ray  :  'tis  from  a  star 
By  sweet  Urania  named.     It  murmurs  not, 
Because,  forsooth,  it  seemed  an  unkind  lot 
To  set  so  fair  an  orb  so  deep  in  gloom 
To,  innocently,  expiate  some  doom  ; 
And  those  who've  met  its  lone,  estranged  ray, 
Aver  none  purer  in  yon  jeweled  way. 

Worldling !  ere  thou  adjudge  the  recluse'  fate, 
Take  to  thy  heart  that  absent  wanderer's  state. 


ALCIBIADES'  SOLILOQUY.  07 


ALCIBIADES'   SOLILOQUY. 

[Alcibiades,  at  the  request  of  his  grateful  country 
men,  leaves  the  scene  of  his  successes  in  the  East,  and 
turns  his  trireme  homewards.  The  night  before  the 
anticipated  arrival  at  the  port  of  Piraeus,  he  reclines 
thoughtfully  at  the  prow,  gazing  into  the  moonlit  waters ; 
while  his  heart  is  alternately  filled  with  joy  at  his  pres 
ent  prosperity,  and  depressed  with  doubts,  when  he 
reflects  that  perhaps  the  calamitous  Sicilian  expedition 
and  its  consequences  are  too  well  remembered.] 

LEEP,  my  suggestive  soul  !  nor  longer 

force 

The  vexious  labyrinth  of  years  misspent ! 
Or,    since   thou    wilt    unsummoned  yet 

discourse, 

Let  thy  swift  footsteps  seek  some  hap 
pier  bent. 

Why  shoulst  not  thou,  as  yon  great  orb  of  day, 
Sink  thy  all-ruling  state  and  find  thy  rest  ? 
Than  thou  more  kind,  he  will  not  ever  sway, 
But  woos  repose  in  fair  Argolis'  breast ; 
Whilst  thou,  poor  imitator  of  his  prudent  might, 
Art  not  content  to  cast  thy  sceptre  down 


98  POEMS. 

And  grant  thy  weary  subject  a  respite. 
Why  Avilt  them  stay  Oblivion's  gloom,  and  chain 
my  deeds  to  light  ? 

My  fate  the  morrow's  certainty  unfolds  ! 
O  Intimation,  canst  thou  speak  that  fate  ? 
That,  as  the  future's  speechless  veil  uprolls, 
Unwonted  pride  may  not  this  heart  elate, 
Or  deep  emotions  to  quick  eyes  attest 
Its  crowning  passion.     In  my  hungering  ear, 
That  waits  impatiently  the  banquet  blest, 
Is  it  decreed  that  happiest  throngs  shall  pour 
The  loud  acclaim  ;  or,  shall  I  once  more  hear 
The  fatal  murmurs  of  Charybdis'  shore 
That  rests  unmoved  as  to  its  rude  embrace 
The  winsome  tide  bears  on  the  bark  that  soon  no 
eye  may  trace  ? 

And  thou,  broad,  restless  JEgean !  e'en  thy  might, 
Subdued  by  pale  Diana's  countless  shafts, 
Would  say  how  Hope  may  pierce  thro'  Doubt's 

dark  night, 

To  cheer  the  bark  some  blessed  promise  wafts 
On  to  its  haven.     Yon  bright  pathway's  gleam, — 
Fair  harbinger  of  glory's  rapturous  way,—   , 
WTould  guide  aright  my  proud,  ambitious  dream, 
And  Retribution's  stern  alarms  allay. 


ALCIBIADES'  SOLILOQUY.  99 

In  the  abyss  this  dark  wide  Avaste  upbears, 
Forever  let  Suspicion's  impulse  stray : 
"Whilst  I,  unshackled  from  o'er-pressing  cares, 
Now  gaze  into  its  depths  profound  and  crave  the 
peace  it  shares. 

Yet  painting  e'er  that  day  of  joy  and  dread 
When  the  majestic  fleet  lost  Piraeus'  Avail 
And  to  Sicilian  Avaters  onward  sped  ? 
Or  dwellest  thou  on  Athena's  sacred  call  ? 
The  deep  revenge  my  raging  bosom  planned  ; 
Then  to  the  foe  to  seal  my  country's  doom  ; 
On  to  the  haughty  monarch's  breadthless  land  ; 
There  to  entreat  my  birthright's  deathless  gloom? 
True,  reason  came  with  poAver  to  attain 
Its  lost  possession,  and  its  reign  assume, 
There  to  abide  and  hide  the  monstrous  stain. — 
Say  yon  inconstant  city's  voice  adjudge  that  com 
pact  vain  ! 

Oh  !  let  my  feet  th'  inspiring  bema  press, 
Where  eloquence  so  oft  usurped  my  tongue  ! — 
HOAV  yearned  my  heart  its  passion  to  caress, 
When  all  unheard  for  Hermse's  crime  'twas  wrung! 
Wrong  shall  be  banished.     Eight  shall  claim  her 

own  ; 
And  he  who  from  the  state's  injustice  fled 


100  POEMS. 

Shall  win  liis  country's  praise, — in  sweetest  tone 
From  him  who  first  condemned.  For  who  hath  led 
Her  fleet  triumphant  ?  Who  hath  ranged  the  band 
'Neath  the  proud  banner  ?     These  my  cause  have 

pled. 

On,  then,  brave  steed  by  JSgean  zephyrs  fanned  ! 
On,  then,  brave  soul,  fear  not  the  voice  of  thine 

auspicious  land  ! 


ECHO. 

*  EEP  in  the  woodland  glade 
Comes  Juno's  laughing  maid, 

Now  sorrow-blighted  ; 
No  sportive  pastime  telling  ; 
The  crystal  jewels  welling 

That  joy  once  lighted. 


With  frown,  from  Atthis'  land, 
Nemesis,  with  her  wand, 

Too,  counselling  with  her  ; 
Till  thro'  the  wild-wood  winging 


ECHO. 

Sweet  Echo's  tones  are  ringing — 
Then  hastening  thither 

To  where  the  fount  is  sleeping, 
A  secret  vigil  keeping 

For  him  comes  speeding 
Uncared  ;  the  bright  hours  wiling  ; 
With  blithesome  note  beguiling — 

His  fate  unheeding. 

Enchained  by  mystic  link, 
To  the  reflective  brink 

The  goddess  guides  him  : 
He  sighs,  he  dies — adoring  ; 
The  limpid  shade  imploring 

That  in  it  hides  him  ! 

And  there  a  floweret  clings. 
A  saddening  tale  it  brings  ; 

Or,  task  assuming, 
It  bears  the  lover  warning, 
To  love,  no  longer  scorning 

Narcissus  blooming. 


POEMS. 

AYESHA. 

(Seventh  Century.) 

YESHA,  when  the  dread  sand- sea 
Us  its  billow  rolls  between, 

Guard,  with  sometime  thought  for  me, 
This  fair  rose  of  Damascene. 


Share  with  it  the  dawn's  first  thought; 

Forth,  when  Orient's  splendors  rise  ! 
Haste  thee,  that  its  sense  be  taught 
Glories  more  than  his — thine  eyes. 

By  thee,  'neath  the  fervid  ray, 
Be  its  drooping  form  o'erdewed  : 

So  its  lapsing  life  may  stay, 
To  enduring  beauty  wooed. 

And  when  evening  shades  appear, 

Linger,  that  in  loneliness 
Fancy's  bodings,  phantomed  near, 

Ne'er  its  fainting  strength  oppress. 

Then,  should  words  of  kind  intent 
O'er  its  state  from  thee  outpour, 

Blessed  as  cry  of  muezzin  sent 
To  Natolia's  faithful  shore 


TO  PHILOMEL. 


103 


Comes  then,  hastening,  Ayesha's  sigh, 
Saying,  Nay!  thy  heart's  true  queen 

Kinder,  since  thou  art  not  by, 
Lov'st  thy  rose  of  Damascene  ! 


TO  PHILOMEL. 

(From  the  French.) 

HY  wilt  thou,  plaintive  Philomel, 
Ne'er  from  thy  sorrow  seek  relief? 
To  me,  who  come  to  share  thy  grief, 

To  me  thy  heart's  emotion  tell. 


The  universe,  in  brightest  shades, 

Presents  her  beauties  to  beguile  ; 
The  bowered  Dryads  hope  with  smile 
To  woo  thee  onward  to  their  glades. 

Afar  the  Northwind's  breath  expires, 
And  thrusts  aside  his  chilling  cares  ; 
The  Earth  her  verdured  mantle  wears ; 

The  sky's  aglow  with  beauteous  fires  ! 


104 


POEMS. 


For  you  Cephalus'  love  presumes 
With  diamonds  Flora  to  o'erspray  ; 
While  Zephyr  seizes  on  his  way 

Earth's  wanton  store  of  rare  perfumes. 

The  birds  have  ceased  their  warbling-strife 
To  catch  again  thy  sad  refrain  ; 
The  hunter  stays  his  hand  again, 

Nor  thinks  to  mar  thy  guileless  life. 

Yet  in  thy  tortured  bosom  dwell 
The  luckless  shafts  to  Fortune  left, 
When  one  a  sister's  heart  had  cleft — 

So  cruelly  she  aimed — and  well ! 

Alas  !  could  my  sad  thought  persuade 
The  healing  past  into  my  heart ! 
Thy  griefs  are  robed  with  memory's  art, 

By  present  hours  are  mine  arrayed. 

Thy  griefs,  when  Nature  quick  espies, 
She  soothes  with  fairest  prospect  spread  ; 
Mine  are  in  poignant  regions  led, 

Where  envious  Present  stops  my  sighs. 


BERENICE.  105 

BERENICE. 

LOW,  them  churlish  ice-wind,  blow  ! 

Beat,  ye  angry  tempests,  beat ! 
fiJWith  ceaseless  dashings,  torrents,  flow  ! 
Think  ye  to  stay  his  hastening  feet  ? 
What  heeds  my  brave  love,  for  his  step 

is  light; 

And  eyes  would  be  dimmed  came  he 
not  to-night. 


Fly,  O  drift-wind,  over  the  moor, 
Moaning  tales  of  a  gloomy  heath, 

Of  a  faithless  track,  of  a  raiment  pure, 
A  silent  sleep  and  eddied  wreath. 

Nay,  'twill  stay  him  not  in  his  eager  flight, 
For  roses  would  fade  came  he  not  to-night. 

Remorseful  boughs,  be  ye  lifted  high  : 
Bespeak  my  love,  for  he  long  delays. 

Pants  he  ever  on  ?  dost  thou  know  his  cry  ? 
Hath  he  sunk  to  rest  in  the  wild  moor-maze  ? 

If  my  love  be  bound  in  a  cerement  white, 

Low,  heart,  lie  thee  low  on  the  moor  to-night! 


106  POEMS. 

ETHEL. 

(Daughter  of  Edwin  and  Julia.) 

EMOANING  her  ?    Ah,  nay  ! 

'Twas  the  good  Master  called. 
P*         She  heard,  and,  uuappalled 
Nor  sought,  nor  wished  delay. 
Oh,  unsubmissive  deed  ! 
Relentlessly  to  plead 
To  hear  the  voice  that,  echoing,  died 
away. 

Stayed  not.     Down  to  the  strand 

With  holy  impulse  came, 

Whilst  yet  her  breathed  name 
Was  said  to  the  pure  band  ; 

Their  joyous  voices  told 

How  she,  to  greet  the  fold, 
Need  trustingly  but  touch  their  Saviour's  hand. 

Darkly  the  torrent  swept. 

She  faltered  at  its  brink — 

Angel,  skilled  but  to  think 
How  shining  ways  are  kept  !- 

He  saw  her  heart  distressed, 

And  onward  swiftly  pressed, — 
She,  from  his  bosom,  saw  its  flood  o'erstept. 


ETHEL. 


ID/ 


With  deep  solicitude 

She  reads  his  face  divine  ; 

But  haply  notes  no  sign 
How  sufferings  may  intrude. 

Forever  freed  from  pain  : 

Unpitying  wish— and  vain, 

That  she   should   share   our  hours   with   pains 
imbued. 


POEMS. 

ON  CONCLUDING  CICEKO'S  SIXTH 
PHILLIPIC. 


f  LIBERTY,  poor  flickering  dying  flame  ! 
O  breath  of  Eloqiience,  whose  flames 

endure  ! 
O  once  proud  substance  !  now  a  sounded 

name  ; 

O  light  of  nations !    gleaming,    ever 
pure. 


ON  CONCLUDING  THE  FIFTH  VOLUME  OF 

GIBBON'S   "DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF 

THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE." 


1  CLOSE  thee,  volume,  with  a  pang— 

and  joy, 
A  pang  at  banishment  from  Moslem. 

Greek  : 

Rejoicing  I  may  yet  my  thought  employ 
With  deeds  and  heroes  future  pages 
speak. 


PAUSAfflAS. 

PAUSANIAS. 

DKASIATIS 


109 


PATJSANIAS,  a  Spartan  General. 

TISAMENTJS,  a  Diviner. 

LYDUS,  a  boy  attending  Pausanias. 

SCENES—  The  Camp  at  Platea,  then  at  Bj-zantium,  and  lastly 
near  Sparta. 

SCENE  I.  —  Platcea.     A  camp  at  night. 
Enter  PAUSANIAS. 

AU.  Another  clay  has  gone, 

And  silent  night  has  curtained  o'er  our 

host, 
My  soul  hath  made  resolve,  ere  Phoebus' 

car 
Shall  toil  the  brow  of  high  Cithferon's 

mount, 

The  haughty  foe  shall  taste  our  weighty  steel, 
And  turn  him  hence  in  ignominious  haste  ; 
Or  Sparta's  sons  shall  take  that  longest  rest. 
Lydus,  attend  ! 

Enter  LYDTTS. 

LYDTTS.  Here,  lord,  to  do  your  pleasure. 
PAU.  My  gentle  helot,  didst  thou  not  relate, 


HO  POEMS. 

In  sportive  manner  for  thy  comrade's  ear, 
How  Elea's  prophet  came  into  our  camp 
In  soiled  attire,  and  rests  with  thoughtful  mien 
Within  its  limit  ? 

LYD.  'Tis  true,  my  lord.     It  was  but  yester 

eve,  — 

The  wakeful  sentry  kept  his  anxious  watch 
To  see  the  heavy  hours  creep  slowly  by, — 
When,  as  yon  star  that  doth  the  west  inflame 
Had  sunk  to  rest,  there  came,  as  from  the  gloom, 
A  halting  figure.     Nothing  would  it  speak 
Save,  properly,  the  word  that  doth  insure 
Our  camp's  repose  and  surety  'gainst  the  foe. 
Him  thus  the  sentry  willed  to  pass  him  by, 
And  saw  him  brooding  by  the  cheerful  fire 
Whilst  all  the  phalanx  courted  soothing  sleep. 
There  kept  he  in  that  same  strange  attitude, 
When  I,  at  early  morn  by  sleep  renewed, 
Did  seek  my  duties.     I  did  him  long  observe  ; 
And  from  my  musings  wove  a  jesting  tale 
To  tell  my  comrades  :  how  from  Pluto's  realm 
A  cunning  spirit  had  by  trick  obtained 
The  key  that  doth  unlock  the  nether  world, 
And  fled  to  earth.     It  was  this  tale  you  heard. 
If  it  doth  give  offense,  your  pardon  on  it. 

PAXJ.  Nay,  boy,  it  matters  not.     I  rather  joy 
That  thou  hast  pleasant  humor.     Canst  thou  tell 


PAUSANIAS.  in 

His  name  aud  present  business  ? 

LYD.  He  is  a  seer,  and  doth  of  fate  forecast ; 
His  name,  Tisamenus. 

PAU.  Seek  him  e'en  to  the  camp's  extremest 

verge  ; 

Tell  him  that  Sparta's  valiant  captain  waits, 
And  would  hold  converse. 

LTD.  This  will  I  do  and  come  with  much  dis 
patch.  [Exeunt. 

PAU.  Now  may  I  know  the  issue  of  our  trials  ; 
The  great  events  that  by  them  shall  declare. 
Perchance  the  tongues  of  ages  yet  to  be 
Shall  sound  our  glories  on  to  infant  ears, 
And  each  shall  sigh,  that  destiny  had  willed 
Long  years  of  intervention.     Perchance  a  shade 
As  deep  in  hue  as  that  o'er  Stygian  flood 
Shall  blight  this  happy  land,  and  time  shall  weep 
And  shudder  as  it  ponders  !     Lydus  draws  near, 
In  quick  attendance  on  the  thoughtful  seer. 

Enter  TISAMENUS  ;  LYDUS  keeps  the  door. 

Welcome,  good  friend,  if  haply  so  you  prove. 
Yon  harmless  boy  of  thee  hath  brought  report, 
Whose  strange  complexion  bids  me  seize  a  hope 
That  them  mayst  argue  from  some  secret  sign 
The  fruitful  morrow,  and  what  swift  result 
Shall  crown  its  dreadful  conflict.     Tell  me  this. 


112  POEMS. 

Tis.  Dost  thou  know  me  ? 

PATJ.  Thy  name  I  know,  and  'tis  Tisainenus. 

Tis.  Canst  build  the  structure  of  thy  hopes  and 
fears 

On  such  foundation  ? 

PAU.  There  is  a  gift  by  mighty  Zeus  willed 
To  live  and  mingle  in  the  royal  blood 
Of  Sparta's  kings.     Such  is  this  potent  gift 
That  he  can  read,  as  with  the  stycale's  rod, 
The  thought  that  flits  portrayed  upon  each  face  : 
And  by  this  mean  I  know  thy  hidden  powers. 
Such  is  the  virtue  of  it. 

Tis.  Mine  is  a  gift  that  far  outmatches  thine. 
In  my  fair  youth  Elea  was  my  state, 
"Where,   with  the  swains,   the  Hyblsean  brood  I 

chased ; 

Till  with  ennobling  years  proud  visions  came, 
And  thirsts  for  emulation.     Thence  away 
The  Pythian's  blessing  to  obtain;  then  ask 
Her    much    sought    counsel.     Her,    with    great 

amaze, 

I  heard  pronounce  a  fate  of  much  import : 
That  in  five  contests  I  should  victor  be. 
No  more  she'd  speak,  but  I  must  time  abide 
To  learn  their  nature.     Yet  it  hath  not  been. 
To  the  Olympic  sand  from  Andros  came 
One  who  o'erthrew  me  in  the  heated  strife. 


PAUSANIAS.  U3 

It  seemeth  then  my  triumphs  must  be  won 
Upon  the  bloody  field  :  my  gleaming  sword 
Shall  hurl  yon  myrmidons  back  to  their  haunts. 

PAU.  But,  sir,  what  of  thy  rare  prophetic  gift  ? 
It  is  for  that  I  bade  thee  to  my  tent. 

Tis.  She   that  endowed   me  with  my  blessed 

hope 

Did  grant  a  blessing  that  doth  it  excel, — 
Breathing  into  my  soul  a  subtle  power 
Whereby  such  things  as  have  not  yet  seen  life 
Stand  forth  apparent.     This  I'll  not  impart 
Save  for  a  compensation  men  adjudge 
Beyond  compare.     O  Spartan,  hear  thou  it : 
To  be  a  fellow  of  thy  honored  state 
Is  my  desire.     Attain  this  by  thy  speech  : 
To  all  thy  wishes  will  I  then  comply  ; 
And  we,  in  unison,  will  teach  the  foe 
What  virtues  dwell  in  heroes. 

PAU.  I'll  to  our  generals,  and  tell  them  all. 
Stay  !     I  will  soon  return.     Lydits,  away  ! 

[Exeunt. 

Tis.  This  Spartan,  though  a    bold    one,    and 

approved, 

Hath  that  within  him  that  may  Avell  be  spared  : 
It  is  the  calm  that  tempts  the  nautilus  ! 
The  exigencies  that  enshroud  this  time 
Have  forced  him  to  the  near  regards  of  men  : 


II4  I'OEMS. 

But,  when  the  time  of  blissful  peace  shall  come, 
This  rigid  oak,  that  bows  not  to  the  wind, 
Shall,  by  the  flame  insidious  luxury  fans, 
O'er  topple  in  its  pride — and  shake  the  earth. 
But  soft !  he  comes  again — and  all  assent. 

Enter  PAUSANIAS,  Ephors,    Generals  and  Soldiers. 

PAU.  Tisamenus,  much  is  your  point  discussed, 
And  many  think  your  price  too  much  enhanced. 
But,  terror  of  the  Median  host  is  such 
That  all  do  yield  ;  and  do  their  hopes  intrust 
To  the  joined  honors  of  our  several  hearts. 
What  say  you  of  our  chances  ? 

Tis.  For  this  great  honor  I  do  give  you  thanks  ; 
And  I  shall  so  comport  my  every  act 
To  bring  a  happy  issue  to  our  perils. 
Spartans,  know  this  :  Yon  river  that  divides 
The  gorgeous  host  from  our  too  eager  band 
Would  stay  your  course.     Across  the  turbid  tide 
Lurk  many  dangers.     So,  e'en  to  our  foe 
Come  he  to  this.     We  will  await  him  here. 
Asopus  dared,  his  folly  shall  appear  ! 


PAUSAX1AS.  u$ 

SCENE  II. — Byzantium. — PAUSANIAS,  in  a 
Persian  robe,  banqueting  in  great  magnif 
icence,  surrounded  by  his  officers. — Music. 

PAU.  Slaves  !  be  ye  still,  and  list  to  my  com 
mand. 

Fill  with  the  ruby  wine  each  sparkling  cup  ! 
Ha  !  Ha  !  thought  we  along  Asopus'  side 
That  night  could  ever  witness  sight  like  this  ? 
I/vdus,"  thou  dog,   come  hence  !     What  was  my 

speech 
When   we  then    dreamed    among    our  foes  and 

spoils  ? 

LYDUS.  You  bade  our  Grecian  officers  attend  : 
You'd  have  them  see,  you  said,  the  Persian '.s  foUy  ; 
And  marvelled  he   should  leave  his  prosperous 

home 

To  wrench  a  homely  pittance  from  our  hearths  : 
You  bade  the  helots  pile  the  massy  spoil 
On   countless  beasts   of    strange    and    unknown 

mould, 

And  bear  it  thence  to  many  a  sacred  shrine  : 
You  then  bade  spread  our  humble,  frugal  fare, — 
In  mighty  contrast  to  the  Persian's  pomp, — 
And  said  the  lesson  that  it  did  avouch 
Was,  that  by  modest  mien  and  honor's  path 
Men  are  ordained  for  freedom  : — Save  vour  hand  ! 


116  POEMS. 

PAU.  Nay,  fool,  I  will  not  strike ; — tell  on  your 
tale. 

LYD.  But,  since  your  brain  hath  turned  with 

glory's  pomp  ; 

Since  you  despise  what  you  did  then  commend, 
Your  friends  have  from  you  one  by  one  far  flown. 
Till  you  are,  like  Laocoon,  all  entwined 
Within  the  lawless  pleasures  of  this  court. 
I  crave  thy  pardon.     Thou  didst  bid  me  speak. 

PAU.  Out,  villian,  and  call  hence  Tisamenus  ! 

[Exit  LYDUS. 

That  vile  imposter  who  himself  withholds, 
Thinking  to  check  our  mirth  and  pleasant  hours; 
Giving  himself  much  pi'aise,  because  forsooth 
Some  actions  he  foretold  went  not  amiss. 

Enter  TISAMENUS. 

Well,  citizen,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now  ? 

Dost  think  the  price  once  paid  for  thy  fair  word* 

Was  gain  to  Sparta  ? 

Tis.  For  my  poor  coin  great  riches  I  have 

gained; 
The  gain  to  Sparta  may  not  thus  allow. 

PAU.  Put  off  thy  riddling   and   speak   plainly 
now. 

Tis.  'Twas  my  ill  fortune,  one  brief  year  ago, 
To  own  a  state  that  could  no  honors  boast; 


PA  USANIAS.  117 

But  now  o'er  happiest  Sparta  may  I  roam, 
As  her  proud  son. 

PATJ.  Know,  proud  sou,   thine  is  a  matron 

gauded. 

Of  that  pertains  to  riches  she  hath  not: 
She  hath  a  boundless  store  of  arrogance : 
Xought  else  besides. 

Tis.  Pausanias,  thou  shalt  perforce  hear  me. 
Thou  art  the  sorriest  wreck  of  all  these  times. 
Like  great  Diana  thou  didst  climb  the  sky; 
And  like  her  thou  art  sinking — all  but  shorn. 
I  tell  thee,  man,  that  Sparta  marks  thy  crime  : 
She  knows  thy  wild  intents — thy  hopes  shall  die. 
What  means  this  aping  of  her  deadliest  foe  ? 
Thy  flowing  robes,  rich  collars,  fragrant  wines  ? 
What  means  this  tale  the  guardian  winds  bear 

her  ? 
To  wed  the  monarch's  daiighter  thou  wouldst 

give 

Him  all  domain  ? — and,  can  it  then  be 
That  thing  so  base  had  birth  on  Sparta's  soil  ? 
I  tell  thee,  madman,  how  thy  sun  has  set: 
Thy  country's  summons  stays  but  at  the  door. — 
Ho!  guards,  attend,  and  bear  this  traitor  hence  1 

\Enter  guards  who  bind  PAUSANIAS  and  exeunt. 


Il8  POEMS. 

SCENE  III. — Sparta,  near  the  Temple,  in  Minerva's 
Grove. 

Enter  PATJSANIAS,   disguised.      A   boy  dis 
guised. 

PATJ.  Tell  me,  good  Lydus,  is't  not  by  this  wood 
That  great  Minerva  keeps  her  solemn  state  ? 

LYD.  Methinks  we  should  be  near  it. 

PAU.  O  dreadful  bolt  that  rived  yon  knotty 

oak  ! 

Why  dost  thou  pass  me  by  to  vent  thy  spleen 
On  that  which  gladdens  nature  ?     Why  blast 

there 

And  I  stand  by  unharmed  ?     O  Jupiter, 
Send  thy  shaft  next  into  this  hateful  breast — 
This  life  detestable  !     Ope  now  thy  hand  ! 
Oft  have  I  viewed  the  hurrying  lightning's  play, 
And  heard  Jove's  thunders  sounded  earth  around 
In  breathless  wonderment.     Boy,  fearest  thou 

not? 

When  I  was  of  thy  fresh  and  tender  age, 
'Twas  of  all  deeds  most  fearful:  wiser  grown 
The  fancies  of  that  age  yet  ever  stayed. 
Using  that  expedition  it  retains, 
It  cannot  now  break  through  this  wall  too  soon  ! 

LYD.    I  pray  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  not  yet 
despair. 


CAtfST  THOU  FORGET. 


Ilq 


There  are  sucli  sliiftings  in  this  world  of  ours 
That  Fortune's  gifts  lie  strewed  upon  our  paths 
Where  least  expected.     Bid  thy  courage  up  ! 
Here  is  the  Temple  :  we  will  fly  to  it. 
And,  dying  at  Minerva's  feet,  thus  gain 
Immortal  honors  elsewhere  sought  in  vain  ! 

Enter  citizens  who  wall  the  entrances  to  the  Temple. 


CANST  THOU  FORGET  ? 

ANST  thou  forget  ?    Ah,  say  'tis  joyous 

spring, 
Green  every  field,  and  rustling  every 

bower. 
No  song  save  thine  can  sweetest  song 

ster  bring  ; 
No  voice  save  thine  can  waken  every 

flower. 

The  harebell  thus:  Why,  fondest,  stay  est  thou  yet? 
Dost  think  then,  harebell,  that  we  can  —  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  ?     Ah,  say  'tis  siirnmer  come. 
We  woo,  outstretched,   the  shriveling  stream, 
whose  note 


120  POEMS. 

Makes  harmony  with  restless  insects'  hum, 
And  fancies  shape  where  fleecy  atoms  float: 

Yon  structure  bold  is  fair — none  fairer,  yet 

'Twas  planned  for  thee.     Dost  think  we  can — 
forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  '?     Ah,  say  'tis  autumn,  dyed 
And  trophied  o'er  with  deep-hued  leaf  and  tree. 

We  turn  afield — then  stay,  for  one  beside  : 
Mem'ry's  illusion,  fondest,  'twas  for  thee  ! 

Apart,  with  oft-communings,  stores  we  set, 

Full  for  thy  sake.     How  canst  thou  say — forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  ?     Ah,  say  'tis  winter  drear. 

We  mutely  stray,  that  Nature  may  not  wake  ; 
We  stoop  and  flaked  trac'ries  now  appear. 
Wouldst  know   the  characters  our  musings 

make  ? 

A  name.     Why,  fondest,  this  is  thine  !  this  yet ! 
For  hearts  guide  hands.     Dost  think  we  can — 
forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  ?    Aye,  when   yon  matchless- 
light 

Forgets  to  gleam  far  into  ether-space  ! 
It  shall  be  then  thou 'It  fade  from  memory's  sight,. 

Then  cease  to  phantom  each  familiar  place. 
Thy  doubt  hath  wronged  us,  fondest:  never  yet, — 
Mine  eyes  are  dark'niug, — need  to  say — forget. 


INVITATION  TO  AENEAS  TO  TARRY  AT  DELOS.     121 


INVITATION  TO  TINEAS   TO  TAKEY  AT 
DELOS. 

WfSpalflS  of  Delos  we  sing,  of  the  bride  of  the 

'  \/6kM 

waters, 

Haply   set   on   the   crest  of    the  soft 

.ZEgean  wave  ; 

How  joyous  the   strain  when  Mnemo 
syne's  daughters 

Sing  of  Delos,  whose  footstool  the  blue 
waters  lave  ! 

See  !  all  Cyclades  stand  as  in  haste  to  embrace  it: 

'Tis  to  lovingly  shield  it  from  Boreas'  wiles. 
They  his  keen  blasts  have  kept,  that  its  charms 

ever  grace  it ; 

By  them  borne  his  frowns,  for  it  treasured  his 
smiles. 

Aphrodite's  bold  sou,  shun  Ausonia's  dominions, 
Where  the  swords  now  unsheathed  to  bright 

bucklers  resound ; 
Let   thy  flying  steed   rest,  folded  be  her  broad 

pinions, — 

'Tis  for  thee    at  fair    Delos    the  banquet    is 
crowned. 


122  POEMS. 

Harpies  eye  tliee  askance,  fell  Cyclopean  strangers 
Now  would  wave  tliee  to  isles  favored,  seeming 
ly  fair ; 
Troubles  lurk  in  their  groves,  in  their  atmosphere 

dangers, 

And  the  sirens  are  false  as  the  smile  that  they 
wear. 

The  brazen  beak  turns  not ;  cruel  Fate  him  em 
powers. 

On,  then,  tempt  Sidon's  queen  with  illusive  de 
lights  ! 

O  most  god-like  of  men,  borne  from  Ilium's  towers, 
Why  range  the  seas  longer  when  Delos  invites  ? 


THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR.  123 

THE  TWILIGHT  HOUE. 

\  HEN  tumultuous  Day,  soon  flown 

With     his     thronging,    boisterous 

train, 
Wrapt  in  roseate-hued  disguise, 

Paints  the  sky  with  daintiest  stain, 
When  the  gentle  zephyrs  rise, 

Be  that  hour  thine  own. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  calm  repose  ; 

Tranquil  influences  breathe  ; 
Then  each  passion  sinks  to  rest, 

And  Hope's  frailest  tendril-wreath, 
Crushed  till  then  within  the  breast, 
Upward  coyly  grows. 

Unimpassioned,  thou'lt  review 
Many  a  heedless  word  outspoken  ; 

Deeds  that  then  seem  veriest  madness  ; 
Tenderest  friendship  all  but  broken  ; 

And  once  more,  with  sense  of  sadness, 
All  thy  vows  renew. 

Watch  through  twilight's  soft  decline  ; 

See  the  future's  thread  unroll'd  ; 
Keep  the  hour  that  seemeth  lonely— 

'Twill  to  thee  thy  worth  unfold  : 
Fellowship 'd  with  conscience  only. 
Guard  that  hour  as  thine. 


124 


POEMS. 

LA  FLEUB. 

(From  the  French.) 

ADING  and  solitary  flower, 

Once  pride  of  all  the  dale, 
Beliold  thy  dower  with  ruthless 

power 
Dispelled  by  every  gale  ! 


Fate  thus  from  many  a  mortal  reaps, 
We're  kindred  save  in  name, — 
A  zephyr  sweeps,  the  leaflet  leaps — 
Past  pleasure  whilst  it  came. 

Each  day  that  lingers  with  the  past 
Some  cherished  dream  enfolds  ; 

'Twas  fairly  cast;  yet,  like  the  last, 
A  fancied  dream  withholds. 

Till  wondering  mortals,  stirred  by  grief 

At  retrospective  hours, 
Ask  why,  beneath,  is  life  so  brief 

To  ecstacy  and  flowers  ? 


LINES  TO   THE  ALABAMA  RIVER.  125 

LINES  TO  THE  ALABAMA  BIVER. 

on,   mysterious   torrent,    by  the 

might 
That  taught  thee  first  to  thread  yon 

deep  recess  ; 
Roll  onward  in  thy  stern  and  sluggish 

flight,— 
Toward  ocean  press. 

Perchance  some  crystal  lakelet  was  the  source 
From  whence  thy  life  was  drawn,  with  murmur 
ing  tone, 

Unheedful  of  a  future's  tortuous  course — 
So  vast,  so  lone  ! 

Impatient  then  in  all  thy  glimmering  length, 
Didst  thou  not  scorn  thy  toils,  as  oft  waylaid 

Some  noisome  fen  usurped  thy  lusty  strength — 
Else  festooned  glade  ? 

Yet  onward  surged  :  their  destinies  enhance 
Thy  murky  volume  by  a  near  embrace  ; 

Then  onward  flow'd  through  Forest's  still  expanse 
With  faltering  pace. 

To  know  thee  first  beneath  the  breathless  night  ! 
How  solemn,  how  unpitying,  dost  thou  seem  : 


126  POEMS. 

Again  to  view  thee  by  the  glittering  light, 
Or  mellowest  beam  ! 

And  note  the  changeful  shapes  its  rays  entice  ; 

The  weird  phantasms  that  thy  currents  yield. 
E'en  thus,  methinks,  with  many  a  quaint  device 

Glow'd  Thetis'  shield. 

As  Oceanus  there  in  wide  confine 

Shut  in  the  varied  tale  of  valorous  deeds, 

So  dark  magnolia's  form  thou  mayst  divine 
Midst  quivering  reeds. 

Flow  on,  O  Alabama,  by  the  might 

That  won  to  thee  this  deadly  wilderness  ! 

None  shall  dispute  with  thee  a  sovereign's  right 
Here  to  oppress  ! 

MOBILE. 


THE  COMPLAINT.  127 

THE  COMPLAINT. 

(After  "  La  Feuille  "  of  Arnault.) 


from  the  bough, 
Sped  o'er  the  heath, 
\  Where  goest  thou, 

Poor,  withering  leaf  ? 

I  cannot  tell  ! 
With  unremitting  stroke 
The  wind  hath  dashed  our  oak, 
And  chants  my  knell  ! 

Soon  life  shall  cease  ; 

Now  here,  now  there, 
At  his  caprice 

Borne  on  the  air, 
To  plead  were  vain. 
Submissively  I  sweep 
By  mountain  top,  or  creep 
Low  in  the  plain  ! 

E'er  thus  to  be  ? 
Unsparing  lot  ! 
Nor  rest  for  me  ? 

O,  breathe  it  not  ! 
As  I  imist  all  — 

The  humblest  herb  that  blows, 
Dark  laurel,  fragrant  rose, 
Untimely  fall  ? 


128  POEMS. 

LITTLE  MAID  OF  ANGLESEY. 

(Welsh  Ballad.) 

ITTLE  maid  of  Anglesey, 

How  dream-like  now  it  seems  to  me  ! 
*  *  *  *  * 

Behind,  the  evening  vesper  toll'd  ; 
Before,  the  Biscan  billow  roll'd  ; 
And  I  was  borne  to  lands  unknown, 
And  you  were  left  to  weep—  alone. 

Little  maid  of  Anglesey, 
From  far  adown  the  western  sky 
There  came  a  messenger  to  me  : 
It  was  a  last,  a  lingering  tie  ; 
It  was  that  band  of  molten  gold, 

Just  blending  with  the  shades  of  night, 
Reflected  from  thy  tresses,  told 

Who  watched — a  farewell,  signal  light. 

Little  maid  of  Anglesey, 
My  heart  that  eve  was  full  of  thee  : 
For  when  that  beacon  ceased  its  flame 
A  thousand  grateful  memories  came 
From  days  bygone  ;  and,  pondering  long 
Bowed  down,  I  met  the  gathering  throng. 
I  viewed  again  the  tapering  spire  ; 


LITTLE  MAID  OF  ANGLESEY. 

I  caught  the  accents  of  the  choir  ; 
The  master's  word,  the  near  appeal, 
(How  oft  the  errant  eye  would  steal 
To  one  who  listened  at  my  side, 
With  holiest  impulses  to  guide  !) 
The  little  cot,  the  rose-wreathed  door, 
The  hill-side  path,  the  oft-trod  shore  ; 
The  evening  pastime  on  the  green — 
I  lived  them  o'er — each  treasured  scene. 

Little  maid  of  Anglesey, 

Fair  maidens  dwell  in  Normandy  ; 

And  eyes  there  be  that  swiftly  glance, 

And  tones  of  softest  breathings  sigh, 
And  feet  to  merry  measures  dance 

Where  full  the  yellow  harvests  He. 
I've  met  the  glance  to  scorn  its  spell ; 

The  sigh  passed  as  the  idle  wind  : 
I  knew  no  lover's  tale  to  tell, 

As  through  the  mazy  dance  we  twined. 

Little  maid  of  Anglesey, 

Back,  back  the  good  ship  came  to  thee. 

My  heart,  my  beating  heart,  was  true; 

And  all  its  beatings  as  she  flew, 

Were  that  the  lingering  doubts  of  years 

Might  prove  as  idle  as  its  fears  ; 

And  as  she  onward  flew,  and  fast. 


129 


POEMS. 

Again  my  eyes,  as  in  the  past, 

This  rock  with  eager  questionings  sought, 

To  know  another  ray  had  caught 

Thy  tresses  gleam  from  out  the  night  — 

An  ever-faithful,  guiding  light  ! 


TO  BROTHER. 

OULD,  brother,  would  that  ever  thud 
Through  life's  uncertain  weather, 

Would  it  might  ever  be  for  us 
To  wander  on  together  ! 

Thus  ever  onward,  side  by  side, 

Thy  voice  to  cheer,  my  hand  to  guide. 


Would,  brother,  that  thy  kindly  eye 
Might  never  beam  less  brightly  ! 

Would  that  thy  heart  might  ever  lie 
Within  its  cell  so  lightly  ! 

And  be  life's  canopy  to  you 

Thy  cheek's  own  blushing,  happy  hue  ! 


TO  BROTHER.  131 

In  glory  walks  our  autumn-clay, 
And  faultless,  to  your  reason  ; 

So,  brother,  be  thy  far-away — 
That  ever-present  season. 

Be  thus  its  by-ways  broad  and  sure  ; 
Above,  its  vapory  realms  as  pure. 

And  if  it  be,  for  one,  thine  arm 

To  point  untrod  direction  ; 
-To  shelter  from  a  fancied  harm — 

A  brother's  own  protection. — 
Then  for  him  be  that  love  of  thine 
As  steadfast  as  for  thee  is  mine  ! 


132  POEMS. 

THE  FAILURE. 

|  ANG  out  the  red  flag, 

(That  ominous  token 
Of  plans  never  realized, 
X  ^  Contracts  all  broken) 

7  f  Boll  down  the  shutters  ; 

The  occupant's  fled 
I  Where  he  heeds  not  anathemas 

Hurled  at  his  head  ! 
'Twas  a  desperate  affray ; 

And  the  wise  self-debater 
Saw  fate  must  subdue  him, 

Were  it  sooner  or  later. 
He  struggled  in  silence, 
No  pang  would  reveal, 
But  ever  an  Ixion 

Writhed  at  the  wheel. 
What  he  did  do  was  this, 

(And  with  reason  enough), 
He  fled  from  the  world — 
And  the  world's  cold  rebuff. 

Now,  down  with  his  books — 
Let  their  pages  be  scanned  ! 

Let  us  see  how  he  ciphered, 
How  reasoned  and  planned. 


THE  FAILURE. 

What  a  wonderful  fabric 

Of  unfinished  scheming  ! 
What  a  gossamer  structure 

Of  fanciful  dreaming  ! 
What  a  record  of  error  ! 

What  a  desperate  showing  ! 
What  a  pittance  is  due  ! 

What  a  mountain  is  owing  ! 
Now  on  and  yet  on 

Staring  characters  stand  ; 
.  First  set,  then  erased 

With  a  tremulous  hand, 
With  a  wild  throbbing  brain 

And  a  quick  beating  pulse; 
But  the  truth  would  remain 

With  its  changeless  results  ! 

So  the  books  are  far  flung, 

And  the  tenant  has  flown. 
But  where  did  he  go  ? 

Ah  !  that  secret's  his  own. 
Hand  the  calendar  down  ! 

Add  his  name  to  the  list ! 
From  the  world's  busy  train 

He's  already  dismiss'd  ! 
But  the  eye,  all-enchained, 

Now  amazedly  pauses  ; 


'33 


'34 


I'OEMS. 

What  a  blundering  throng  ! 

What  astonishing  causes  ! 
Read  the  record  far  up, 

To  the  top  and  the  first, 
And  of  all  the  disastrous 

This  last  is  the  worst ! 
This  one  toiled  on  for  knowledge, 

Fed  his  hunger  for  learning  ; 
For  far-sounding  plaudits, 

This  failure  was  yearning  ; 
This  one  grasped  out  for  riches — 

And  saw  them  depart  ; 
This  one  played  for  a  bubble — 

A  cold,  ashen  heart ; 
This  one  tasted  ambition — 

'Twas  turmoil  and  strife  : 
But  his  was  the  saddest — 

The  failure  of  life. 


TELL   ME,  GOOD  LADY-MOTHER,   WHT,  135 


TELL  ME,  GOOD  LADY-MOTHEE,  WHY. 

^•^^"X. 

fELL  me,  good  Lady-mother,  why 
The  zephyr's  laugh  is  still'd. 
I  like  not  its  foreboding  sigh, — 

My  very  heart  is  chill'd. 
My  child,  the  evening-breezes  light, 
"    Alarmed,  fly  the  winds  of  night. 

Tell  me,  good  Lady-mother,  why 

The  gentle  moonbeams  fade. 
Why  should  yon  cloudlet  hast'ning  by 

Enfold  them  in  its  shade  ? 
My  child,  a  symbol  'tis,  unfurled, 
From  storm-cloud  to  the  zenith  whirl'd. 

Tell  me,  good  Lady-mother,  why 

The  fitful  gleam  is  near. 
Its  vivid  dartings,  flaming  high, 

Oppress  my  heart  with  fear. 
My  child,  it  is  the  lightning's  glare 
Whose  purity  shall  linger  there. 

Tell  me,  good  Lady-mother,  why 
So  dark  it  seems — and  strange. 
Why  lowers  so  the  sparkling  sky  ? 


6  POEMS. 

I  do  not  like  the  change. 
My  child,  it  is  the  blessed  rain 
That  brighter  makes  the  sky  again. 

Tell  me,  good  Lady- mother,  why 

These  smiles  your  features  wreathe. 
Why  falls  the  hand?  why  dims  the  eye  ? 

Is  it  the  changeful  eve  ? 

Rains  sobb'd  ;  skies  flamed  in  tempest  wild — 
Nor  answer  else  came  to  the  child. 


SONNET.  ,37 

SONNET. 

(To  my  sister,  with  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  Works.) 

) 
HEN,  from  the  varying  phases  of  the 

mind, 
Thou'dst  seek  companionship  for  every 

mood, 

Open  these  pages,  and  behold  enshrined 
A  smile  for  gladness,  tears  for  solitude. 
Within  these  narrow  bounds  thou'lt 

find,  at  best, 

The  subtlest  strains  the  soul  divine  hath  play'd — 
What  deep  emotions  told  !  what  doubts  express'd  ! 
And  every  fault  with  just  exactness  weighed  ! 
Call  it  a  garden,  blooming  with  sweet  thought, 
Whose  true  complexion  serves  but  to  inspire  : 
Within  its  pale  each  rarest  flower  is  taught 
To  shed  a  fragrance  that  it  holds  entire. 
So,  if  this  garden  thy  quick  sense  attain, 
Thou'lt  fly  all  meads,  and,  craving,  come  again. 


138  POEMS. 

THE  STAR  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 
m 

5  HEN  forth,  again,  upon  the  main 
The   voy'ger  tempts  stern   Ocean's 

wrath, 

'O     Though  headland  fade,  yet,  undismayed, 
He  threads  the  crested  path. 

Nor  fears  ;  and  why  ?   There,  gleaming 

high, 
Behold  the  index  to  his  way  ! 

When  e'er  he  turns,  there  ever  burns 
That  calm,  celestial  ray. 

The  Pole-Star's  beam  it  is,  whose  gleam 
Emboldens  all  his  fond  desires  : 

He  bounds  the  waste  with  ardent  haste, 
If  kindled  be  its  fires. 

Should,  now,  his  bark  through  regions  dark 
Pursue  the  Northwind  to  his  lair, 

'Twill  upward  rise,  surmount  the  skies, 
And  glow,  yet  purer,  there. 

If,  now,  the  helm  to  sunniest  realm 
The  ever  restive  voy'ger  brings, 

It  downward  wends,  with  ocean  blends, — 
Yet  near  to  memory  clings. 


BELATED. 

What  though  it  sink  beneath  the  brink 
And  perish  to  his  earnest  gaze  ? 

He,  wistful,  sure,  proclaims  how  pure, 
How  quenchless  is  its  blaze  ! 

Thus  Friendship's  star.     It  shines  afar, 
Assuring  up  life's  treacherous  zone  : 

Let  climates  smile,  it  lives  the  while 
With  constancy  its  own. 


139 


BELATED. 

HEN,  wandering  from  his  cherished 

nest, 
The  swallow  seeks  the  needful  rest 

That  thick'ning  nightfall  brings, 
He,  conscious  of  a  watchful  Power, 
Forgets  the  darkness  of  the  hour — 

And  folds  his  wearied  wings. 

Nor  yet  laments  his  home  the  less  ; 
But  sleeps,  that  he  at  dawn  may  press 

On  ere  his  loved  one  wake  : 
That  when  the  gilded  morn  shall  burst 
He,  of  all  eager  songsters  first, 

His  homeward  flight  may  take. 


140 


1'OEMS. 


THE  CHANGING  OF  THE  TIDES. 


(At  the  rising  of  the  tides  the  vessels  float  away  into  deep 
water,  and  the  impatient  fishermen  diligently  ply  their  vocation.) 

SLEEP  no  more  !  be  true  !    comrades, 

awaken  ! 

The  hour,   so   near  the  last,    is  full 
-*t|'j^r~  upon  us  ! 

With  loving  arms  the  sea  our  bark  hath 

taken  : 
Let  us  make  ours  the  fruit  our  watch 

hath  won  us. 

To  slumber  now,  fair  fortune  'twere  despising. 
Then,  comrades,  up  !  the  tide,  the  tide  is  rising  ! 

This  weary  stay  our  very  hearts  would  sicken. 

How  blest  the  time  the  waters  are  foretelling! 
If  marked  its  healthful  hue,  your  hearts  "will 

quicken  ; 

See  how  the  limpid  waves  come  ever  swelling  ! 
For  us  a  harvest  full  they  seem  devising. 
Then,  comrades,  up  !    the  tide,  the  tide  is  rising  ! 
****** 

O,  cheerily,  the  harvest  spreads  before  us  ! 

Forget,  forget  the  hours  of  aimless  leisure  ! 
Such  hours  as  this  to  fortune  must  restore  us  ; 

And  to  repletion  hoard  our  bark  with  treasure. 


THE  CHANGING  OF  THE  TIDES.  I4r 

'T  was  for  this  golden  hour  our  hearts  were  yearning. 
Then,  comrades,  haste  !  the  tide,  the  tide  is  turn 
ing  ! 

'Twill  soon  be  gone — be  gone  past  our  availing. 

How  deeply  ever  after  would  we  sorrow  ! 
O,  constant  let  us  be,  though  strength  seem  fail 
ing  : 

Our  care  shall  vanish,  joying  on  the  morrow  ! 
Bid  all -allurements  hence,  with  lofty  spurning  : 

O  comrades,  toil !  the  tide,  the  tide  is  turning  ! 

****** 

How  distant  seems  our  listlessness,  our  strain 
ing  ! 

Let's  speak  it  o'er  ;  we'll  call  it  but  our  dream 
ing. 
We  glide  adown  ;  empurpled  day  is  waning  ; 

And  far  away  our  eddying  path  is  gleaming. 
Our  hearts  are  very  light,  glad  tones  are  calling. 
We  heed  not,  comrades,  though  the  tide  be  falling  ! 

Our    careless    days   are  come,   our    toils    sur 
mounted  ; 

Nor  think  we  longer  of  the  frequent  changing. 
Our  store  is  all  within,  untold,  uncounted  ; 
And  we  may  sleep  whilst  those  who  slept  are 

ranging. 

Did  we  not  well,  O  comrades,  thus  forestalling 
The  changeful  tides — the  rising,  turning,  falling  '? 


142  POEMS. 

IN  EEMEMBRANCE. 


OW  shall  I  set  a  guard  abotit  my  soul, 
To  be  at   once  a  strong    and    sure 

defense  ! 
As  on  the  long  unnumbered    years 

shall  roll, 
How    shall    I  shield  each  now    un 

sullied  sense  ? 


Of  a  perfection  riv'ling  human  art, 

I'll  place  an  image  in  some  secret  shrine  ; 

I  have  no  dearer  shrine  than  this  pure  heart, 
And  it,  receptive,  makes  that  image  —  thine. 

Then  sweet  remembrances,  —  thy  rightful  due,  — 
Like    precious    incense  round  that  cell  shall 
wreathe  ; 

The  measure  of  all  worth  shall  be  in  hue 

Those  harmonies  that  I  have  heard  thee  breathe. 

How  can  my  feet  leave  Honor's  flowery  path, 
Whilst,  thus  inshrin'd,  thou  hold'st  that  peerless 

place  ? 

How  tread  the  weeds  that  Vice's  broad  way  hath, 
In  some  base  plain  that  thou  wouldst  scorn  to 
grace  ? 


IN  REMEMBRANCE.  143 

In  baneful  revelry  should  sense  delight, 
Or  tongue  lend  accent  to  the  ribald  jest, 

I'd  ponder,  but  thine  eyes'  reproachful  blight — 
That  stain  might  find  no  harbor  in  this  breast. 

Nor  could  this  hand  in  harsh  oppression  fall 
(Should  lowliness  attain  to  high  estate), 

In  soft  repose  'twould  stay,  whilst  I  recall 

When  it,  of  thine,   had   summ'd  the  gracious 
weight. 

These  are  but  idle  thoughts — have  ceased  to  live  ; 

Such  mean  conceptions  may  not  long  abide. 
Dishonor  shall  not  win,  I  will  not  give, 

The  sacristy  thou  keepest  at  my  side. 

Such  is  the  guard  I'll  set  about  my  soul, 
Since  it  so  tends  to  be  my  soul's  defense. 

Come,  long,  unnumbered  years  !  whilst  ye  shall 

roll, 
A  shield  is  set  for  each  unsullied  sense. 


144 


1'OEMS. 


A  THOUGHTLESS,    BITTER  WORD— TOO, 
HALF  IN  JEST. 


1 


THOUGHTLESS,   bitter  word  — too, 

half  in  jest, 
Above  the  sea-crests'  breaking  scarcely 

rang. 
But,  then,  it  pierced  the  heart  by  mine 

loved  best — 
Yea,  pierced  it  with  a  needless,  cruel 

pang. 
A  starting,  as  the  varying  colors  rise  ; 

A  dainty  foot  at  toyings  with  the  sand  ; 
An  instant's  look  of  questioning,  sad  surprise  ; 
A  failing  gesture, — parted  hand  from  hand. 


MARJORIE.  I45 

MARJOEIE. 

ITTLE  Marjorie,  Marjorie  mine, 

Why  do  you  sink  in  the  velvet  grass  ? 
Why  are  you  so  secret  in  your  design  ? 
Come,  show  me  that  roguish  face  of 

thine. 

Why,  why  is  this  ?   Little  sunshine  lass, 
On  your  dimpled  cheek  there's  a  glisten 
ing  tear  ; 

Your  tremulous    voice  I  can    scarcely 
hear. 

Of  the  fuschia  you've  broken  the  tender  stalk, 
As  you  swept  it  by  in  your  heedless  chase  ! 

There  are  fuschias  yet  by  the  garden  walk, 
And  myriads  more  in  yon  sunny  space, 

That  come  of  a  loftier,  haughtier  race. 

Then  brush  the  drops  from  your  sparkling  eyes  : 

I'll  lead  you  to  others  of  richer  dyes. 

Ah  !   The  loftier  ones— you  are  careless  of  them  •' 
And  weeping  again  as  your  heart  would  break? 

This  was  at  best  but  an  arrogant  stem, 

And  small  is  the  worth  of  the  life  you  take. 
But  it  loved  you  so  for  your  own,  own  sake  ! 

You  granted  it  life  by  the  pathway  edge, 

And  grievingly,  call  it  a  broken  pledge  ! 


146 


1'OEXS. 


Little  Marjorie,  Marjorie  mine, 

Soon  to  walk  life's  path  with  a  measured  pace, 
Will  your  eyes  ever  grief  like  this  inshrine, 

As  you  bow  down  a  heart  in  some  wayside  place, 
That  dared  to  hope  on  by  your  thoughtless  grace  ? 
There's  a  dangerous  light  in  your  clearing  eyes; 
And  your  cheek  with  the  crimson  f uschia  vies  ! 


O,    FLY    THOSE   MUSIC-BEE  ATHING 
HALLS ! 

FLY  those  music-breathing  halls, 

Mov'd  by  the  soft,  erotic  flame  ! 
To  thee  a  sea  of  silver  calls, 
And  echoes  but  thy  name. 
Here  for  a  time  thy  stay  I  would 

entreat, 
If  thou  wouldst  hear  the  cadences 

that  break 

In  lingering,  piteous  pleadings  at  my  feet : 
She  waits — she  waits  for  thee  and  dear  Love's 
sake  ! 


O,  FLY  THOSE  MUSIC-BREATHING  HALLS.       147 

Fly,  fly  on  love's  swift  wings  :  for,  list  ! 
A  'witching  strain  now  floats  above  : 
Too  soon  thy  beauty  shall  be  miss'd, — 

They'll  say  th'  art  fled  with  Love. 
O,  see  for  thee  how  thickly  stars  are  spread  ! 
They  wait  to  catch  the  plea  yon  wave  shall 

make 
As  I  have  heard  it  here  so  often  pled  : 

She  waits — she  waits  for  thee  and  dear  Love's 
i 


Then  fly  the  halls  of  mirth  and  wine— 
Led  forth  in  Love's  persuasive  name 
O,  bend  thine  eager  steps  to  mine- 
Led  by  Love's  guiding  flame  ! 
Now  thou  art  come,  I  fear  I  did  deceive  thee  ; 
What  cadences  are  theirs  from  me  they  take. 
Then,  dare  my  trembling  hope  in  this  believe 

thee, 
Fly,  Love  !  O,  fly  for  her — for  her  dear  sake  ! 


POEMS. 

LOVE'S  INDEX. 

8W  HAPPY,  happy  fate 
Jj:       That  brought  me  to  the  wood; 
r  To  the  rustling,  leafy  bower 
Of  my  lady  fair  and  good  ! 
I'll  come  within  its  shade  and 

wait — 

For  soon  she  will  appear. 
I  win  or  lose,  this  sunny  hour, 
My  lady  coming  near. 

Some  flow'ret  to  caress 
She  stops  the  way  beside. 

0  dear  volume  that  she  read — 
Let  me  from  my  ambush  glide. 

'Tis  a  poor  lover  in  distress 

Upon  its  page  that  speaks. 
O,  let  me  learn  then  how  he  pled, 

Ere  she  her  bower  seeks  ! 

1  open  and  behold 

The  all-absorbing  text : 
How  the  lover  long  laments — 

To  my  heart  I  lay  it  next. 
'Tis  there,  where  'tis  so  sweetly  told, 

My  dew'd  syringas  rest  ; 


LOVE'S  INDEX. 

And  where  long- waiting  love  consents 
My  parting  violet's  pressed  ! 

"I  love  but  thee  alone." 

O  violet  kiss  the  spot ! 
Let  me  to  my  ambush  steal — 

That  I  gaze  she'll  know  it  not 
Until  I  claim  her  for  my  own. 

She  reads — O  blushes  rare  ! 
I  need  no  more  my  love  conceal — 

My  lady  sees  it  there  ! 


149 


i  i 


BEDOUIN  EOBBEE  AND  STEED. 

£ 

pL-TIEMAN,  Il-Tieman,  and  wilt  thou 

quickly  rise  ? 
Eor  see  !   the  rosy -tinted  morn  flames 

up  the  eastern  skies. 
I   will   offer  up  in   Allah's    name  the 

morning's  glad  devotion  : 
Before   the    burning    sunbeams    come 

across  the  Indus  ocean, 
I'll  grasp  my  scimitar  and  spear,  my  corselet  round 

me  fling  ; 

And  then,  my  ardent  Arab-steed,  upon  thy  back 
I'll  spring ! 

Il-Tieman,  Il-Tieman,  whilst  I  slept  into  my  dream 
There  came  a  vision  of  a  spoil  from  Oman's  pearly 

stream. 
My  heart  in  secret  rapture  melts  with  its  bliss  and 

happiness  ! 
O  princely  steed,   be  ever  true,  as  we  o'er  the 

desert  press  ! 
For  we  may  wrest  a  goodly  gain  ere  the  glowing 

day  is  spent, 
And  spread  it  forth  for  wondering  eyes  in  Mok- 

allana's  tent. 


BEDOUIN  ROBBER  AND  STEED.  1^1 

Il-Tieman,  Il-Tieman,  thou  hast  found  me  ever- 
kind  ; 

So  when  thou  hear'st  my  low  command,  then  be 
fleeter  than  the  wind. 

I  will  breathe  it  in  thine  ear  as  I  far  away  dis 
cover 

The  stranger's  form, — nor  by  him  seen.  When 
dusky  eve  shall  hover, 

Then  let  him  sink  again  to  dream  of  founts  and 
beds  of  flowers, 

And  his  deep  slumber  shall  be  Death's — and  his 
dreamings  shall  be  ours. 

Il-Tieman,  Il-Tieman,  thou  dost  bound  and  proud 
ly  neigh. 

Fly  from  Eas-Fartak's  rocky  coast  to  Al-Akof's 
billowy  way  ! 

Frankincense  fresh  from  balmy  shores,  and  gems 
from  Muscat's  mart, — 

If  thou  faint  not,  of  these,  my  steed,  thine  be  a 
gracious  part ! 

On  !  on  !  thou  ardent  Arab-steed,  upon  thy  back 
I  spring  ! 

Thy  neck  shall  win  a  soft  caress,  thine  ear  with 
praises  ring  ! 


152 


POEMS. 

THE  WATCHER. 

STRANGER. 

AIDEN  of  the  nightly  shade, 

Why  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  pale 
By  the  dews  of  night  o'ersprayed  ? 
Gliding  from  the  darkling  vale, 
Shall  Aurora  of  the  dawn 
Ever  greet  thee  wan  and  worn  ? 

PHANTOM. 

O,  believe  its  pallid  hue 

Finds  within  no  answering  chill ; 
And  the  pearly  drops  of  dew- 
Crystals  are  the  airs  distil ! 
Are  the  hours  so  nearly  gone, 
Envious  Mother  of  the  morn  ? 

STRANGER. 

Maiden,  why  thy  couch  forswear, 

And  these  lonely  vigils  keep  ? 

Harmful  gifts  the  dark  winds  bear. 

Haste  thee  to  a  peaceful  sleep. 

Let  thy  night  in  dreams  consume. 
Dian,  watcher,  doth  illume  ! 


THE    WATCHER. 
PHANTOM. 

Through  the  silvery  festoons,  knit, 
Turn  thine  earnest,  upward  gaze. 
Note  her,  ever  changing,  flit, — 
So  inconstantly  she  stays  ! 
Musing  in  expectant  bliss, 
Speeds  Endymion  to  kiss. 

STRANGER. 

Maiden,  what  imports  it  thee, 

.    Lustrous  night  and  moonbeam's  glance  ? 

Why  shouldst  thou  the  watcher  be 

Where  wood-nymph  and  dryad  dance  ? 
Of  some  treasure  art  bereft 
Near  the  shadowy  mountain-cleft  ? 

PHANTOM. 

Where  the  last,  long  shadow  dies. — 

Telling  how  the  day  is  old, — 
All-concealed  my  treasure  lies 
In  the  secret,  darksome  wold. 

Fawn  and  wood-nymph  may  not  know 
Where  my  heart  is  buried  low  ! 

STRANGER. 

Maiden,  hath  the  priceless  heart 
Fled  thy  deeply  stricken  breast  ? 


'S3 


154 


POEMS. 


Tis  s6me  phantom  then  them  art, 
Want'ning  -with  thy  nightly  rest ! 
Choosing  hours  that  noisome  be 
For  thine  errant  misery. 

PHANTOM. 

Yes,  'twas  priceless  :  yet  I  gave, 

Gave  the  heart  that  once  was  there. 
Deep  they  laid  them  in  the  grave — 
Laid  my  heart  and  lover  fair  ! 
Ever  nightly  watch  I  keep 
Where  my  heart  and  lover  sleep  ! 


SONNET.  jc^ 

SONNET. 

|  IDST  ever  thread,  in  the  low  Southern 

zone, 
^  Some   forest   deep   in    sombre   mosses 


%* 

Until  the  spirit  sank,  subdued  and  sad? 

And,  O  what  rapture!  when,  un thought, 

unknown, 

To  burst  into  some  glade  where  sunbeam  shone  ; 
Where  orange  flower,  and  chaste  magnolia  bade 
The  wearied  traveller  stay,  and,  too,  be  glad, 
And  its  endearing  features  make  his  own. 
Thus,  Edna,  had  my  tortuous  byway  wound 
Life's  forestal  and  dusky  depths,  unlearned  : 
I  sighed  its  wide  expanse  had  set  no  bound, 
Till  to  thy  bright  existence  I  had  turned. 
For  its  compare,  for  scope  with  graces  crowned, 
No  sylvan  scene  this  eye  hath  yet  discerned. 


POEMS. 

DAVID  AND  ABSALOM. 


("  And  the  King  commanded  :  Deal  gently,  for  my  sake,  with 
the  young  man— even  with  Absalom.") 


HY  doth  high  royalty  forget  its  state, 
Cooling  its  feverish  brow  on  frowning 

waUs  ? 
Why  doth  it  loiter   by  the  ponderous 

gate  ? 
Why   start  anew  as  hurrying   footstep 

falls  ? 

And  whence  the  apprehension  that  appalls 
The  kingly  face  of  him  in  kingly  guise, 
Keeping  his  watch  with  fearful,  constant  eyes  ? 

O  monstrous  deed  !  the  fratricidal  hand 
Now  lifts  to  strike  a  father's  form  to  earth. 

Audacious  pride  has  seen  in  dreams  the  wand 
Wrenched  from  the  grasp  of  him  who  gave  it 

birth, 
Thinking  to  gild  a  manhood's  fruitless  worth  : 

And  now  with  foul  intent,  by  folly  led, 

Seeks  e'en  the  crown  on  the  anointed  head  ! 

The  mandate  has  gone  forth  :  "  Ye  of  the  Lord 

For  Israel's  king,  and  Israel's  kingdom,  arm  !" 
And  loval  breasts  had  flamed  with  true  accord 


DAVID  AND  ABSALOM.  f-7 

To  shield  the  monarch  from   the   threatening 

harm  ; 

Yet  his  great  captain,  Joab,  valiant,  calm, 
Bears  from  those  lips  the  trembling,  low  attest : 
' '  Would  ye  might  spare  him  of  my  house  lov'd 
best !" 

And    Joab     had    gone    forth    with    conquering 

power, 

Sinking  ere  noon-tide  from  the  royal  sight. 
Time  onward  speeds  and    soon   must   come  the 

hour 

To  tell  him  if  the  battle  went  aright ; 
And  if  the  Lord  yet  tarried  in  his  might. 
For  this  it  is  he  watches  at  the  gate — 
Forgetting  self  and  dignity  of  state. 

Yet  comes  no  missive  from  the  struggling  field, 
And  day  o'er  Palestine  with  eve  is  blending  ; 

And  who  the  victory  claims  yet  unrevealed 

To  him  who  feels  within  his  breast  contending 
Desire  for  vengeance  on  the  oft-offending  ; 

Then  by  a  father's  instinct  deeper  stirred 

Almost  forgives — forgetting  how  he  erred. 

But  whence  the  cloud  that  in  th'  horizon  shows  ? 

Surely  no  tempest  mars  the  waning  day  ? 
Ever  it  moves,  and  with  each  instant  grows  : 


158*  POEMS. 

It  must  be — 'tis  a  herald  comes  his  way 
Bringing  good  tidings  of  the  ended  fray  ! 
He  comes  alone  !     Auspicious  tale  expect, 
How  all  goes  well,  and  serried  ranks  unchecked. 

Swiftly  the  runner  leaps  the  fiery  plain  : 
Anon  into  the  royal  presence  burst  : 

"Great  tidings  bring  I,  King,  of  thousands  slain  ! 
And  be  rebellion  ever  thus  accurst  ! 
And  death  to  him  whose  arm  is  lifted  first !" 

One  smile  of  triumph  doth  that  face  illume 

And  then  a  darkest  aspect  doth  assume. 

"  Arise,  thou  panting  herald,  tell  me,  too, 
What  tidings  else  beside  the  battle  won. 

Bring  they  my  captive  foe  in  chains  to  sue  ? 
My  captive  foe  !  stern  fate  !  my  yet  loved  son 
Too  early  taught  the  honored  way  to  shun  : 

Then  let  him  come  to  meet  a  chastening  hand, 

And  learn  they  rue  who  slight  a  king's  command. " 

With  awe  the  subject  hears  ;  steps  back  apace, 
Viewing  the  face  where  mounting  wrath  held 

sway, 

Wrought  to  its  pitch  by  thought  of  how  disgrace 
Must  tarnish  all  the  honor  of  that  day, 
When   conquering    hosts   in   pomp   and   war's 
array, 


DAVID   AXD   ABSALOM. 


159 


Pass  by  their  king  with  hymn  and  prayer  devout, 
With  banners  spread  to  joyous  victor's  shout. 

He  answering  :  ' '  Israel's  king,  I  saw  him  not ; 

I  waited  but  to  see  the  conflict  turn  ; 
Thence  speeded  here  in  eager  haste,  and  hot, 

Bringing  such  tidings  as  ye  do  but  learn. 

And  yet,  methinks,  so  valiant  son  would  spiirn 
Long  to  outlive  the  all-disastrous  strife — 
Setting  no  value  to  his  hopeless  life  !" 

The  king  hears  not ;  his  gaze  afar  is  fixed 
Low,  where  the  desert  knits  the  flaming  sky : 

There,  there,  befoamed,  the  gate  and  sky  betwixt, 
The  Cushi  comes  !  so  swiftly  comes  he  nigh, 
'Tis  with  an  eaglet's  wing  he  seems  to  fly  ; 

Is  near — is  here — now  in  the  presence  kneels, 

And  gasping  speaks — the  tidings  all  reveals. 

' '  Fierce  was  the  battle,  but  the  Lord  prevailed  ! 
Far  fled  the  foe,  and  scattered  as  the  chaff 

When  by  Sirocco's  deadly  breath  assailed — 
So  are  thy  foes  before  thy  servant's  wrath 
Blighted  and  whitening  in  rebellion's  path  ! 

And  be  it  thus  with  all  who  scorn  thy  sway — 

The  sleep  of  Ephraim's  wood — -in  death's  decay  !" 

And  David  wept — his  parent  heart  undone, 
"  Would  I  had  died,  O  Absalom,  my  son  !" 


l6o  POEMS. 

SUNSHINE  IN  WINTER. 


INTER  drear  with  Summer's  smile 
And  we,  joyous  as  the  weather, 
Listening  to  the  waves  that  while 
Rippling  round  the  nestling  isle, 
Pace  the  sands  together. 

Bound  in  none  save  Fancy's  chain  ; 

'Neath  the  frowning  castle's  wall ; 
Questioning  tokens  from  the  main 
As  they  come,  to  go  again — 

And  the  shadows  fall. 

Sinks  the  sun  to  Avonted  rest  ; 

Bathes  in  warmth  the  chilling  sea  ; 
Silent  we,  each  thought  suppressed 
As  he  nears  the  glowing  west — 

Rich  in  imagery. 

Ere  the  parting  rays  be  told 

See  them,  lingering,  softly  lie 

On  my  darling's  brow  of  gold  ; 

So,  so  nearly  they  enfold — 
Seeming  loth  to  die. 

List !  the  deep  and  sullen  boom  ! 
'Tis  the  day's  departing  note. 


SUNSHINE  IN    WINTER. 

In  assurance  of  its  doom, 
Through  the  ever-gathering  gloom 
Answering  echoes  float. 

Longer  linger  ere  I  seek 

Where  may  wandering  fancy  be  ? 
Lest  untimely  word  I  speak, 
Bending  low  but  touch  the  cheek — 

Breaks  the  reverie. 

Shine,  O  mellow  moon  and  mild  ! 

Be  the  homeward  way  pursued  ! 
From  the  wintry  day  that  smiled 
Tenderly  I  lead  the  child — 

By  its  thought  subdued. 


POEMS. 

GOLDEN  HOURS. 

'HAT  is  a  golden,    golden   hour — when 

day's  departing  beam 
Spreads  crimson  tints  upon  the  cloud 

and  gilds  the  mountain-crest ; 
When  busy  cares,  that  never  sleep,  fade 

in  a  misty  dream  ; 
"When  gladness  gilds  with  darting  beam 

the  sorrows  of  the  bi-east. 
Pride  stands  abashed  and  deeply  shamed, 

as,  silently,  the  tongue 
Strives  at  the  prompting  of  the  heart 

with  softest  words  to  mould  : 
The  sun   shone   yet    upon   thy    wrath ; 

the  vesper-bell  hath  swung! 
That  is  a  golden,  golden  hour  depart 
ing  beams  enfold. 

That  is  a  golden,   golden  hour — when,  on   the 

desert  drear, 

The  Arab  bids  with  fainting  tones  his  drome 
dary  kneel. 

We  drink  this  night,  give  Allah  praise,  from  foun 
tain  deep  and  clear  ; 

Think  not  the  morrow  is  at  hand,  but  take  the 
present  weal ! 

Then  the  long,  gleaming  spear  he  grasps — aglow 
with  many  a  ray, 


GOLDEN  HOURS.  163 

Thrusts  it  o'erjoyed,  with  fervent  prayer,  deep 

in  the  yielding  sands. 

On  its  gay  pendants  rest  his  eyes — the  evening- 
breezes  play. 

O  golden,  golden  hour  !  he  cries,  and  lifts  the 
bronzed  hands. 

That  is  a  golden,  golden  hour  to  Persia's  happy 

maid 
Resting,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  above  the 

chalky  cliff. 

Round   Oman's   distant,    hazy   point,    in    ocean- 
treasure  laid. 
Fades  one  with  love  in  heart  and  arm  to  guide 

his  dancing  skiff. 
And  well   she  knows   he'll   homeward    turn   ere 

evening-shadows  grow  ; 
And  well  she'll  watch  until -above  the  emerald- 

wave  he'll  rise, 

Then  veil  the  cheek  that  would  reflect  the  even 
ing's  richest  glow. 

O  golden,  golden  is  that  hour  to  Persian  maiden's 
eyes. 

That  is   a   golden,   golden   hour — and  welcomed 

with  the  eve, 

"When  long-forgotten  memories  at  Music's  touch 
awake ; 


!64  POEMS. 

When  some,  perchance,  shall  thrill  with  joy,  and 
'        some,  perchance,  shall  grieve, 
A.S  on  the  ear  the  moving  chords  of  harmony 

shall  break. 
O,  when  the  gilded  mountains  lift  beneath  the 

crimson  skies ; 
When  Music  brings  the  absent  near  with  her 

mysterious  power  ; 
When  on  the  lilies  of  the  field  the  longest  shadow 

lies, 

The  fairest  of  the  hours  hath  come — the  golden, 
golden  hour. 


LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

(Return  of  Happiness.) 


the  world  so  coldly  seemed  to 
frown, 
He  thought  him  in  the  darksome  vale 

to  hide  ; 
He  gladly  hastened  there;  he  flung  him 

down, 

And  o'er  his  past  and  hopeless  future 
sighed. 

When  O  !  he  spies  beside  the  grassy  mound, 
Whose  close  confine  res  train's  the  rill's   dark 
thread, 


LILY  OF  THE   VALLEY.  165 

A  Lily  of  the  Valley,  too,  had  found 

With  some  intent  this  spot  its  sweets  to  shed. 

O  emblem  of  the  modest,  pure,  sincere  ! 

Art  thou,  too,  strangely  shrouded  in  some  spell 
That  keeps  thee  from  each  blooming,  fair  compeer 

To  be  with  me  an  exile  to  the  dell  ? 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley  gently  bowed, 

And  gave  from  bounteous  stores  yet  unconsumed. 
The  evening's  zephyrs,  hastening,  went  endowed 

And  told  afar  the  Lily  yet  perfumed. 

My  home  deep  in  the  valley  hath  been  made, 
I  uncomplaining  :  and  its  depths  disclose 

Xo  answering  tribute  for  my  charms  displayed— 
So  in  oblivion  do  my  hours  repose. 

But  in  its  solitude  I  bloom  content, 

Since  haply,  as  hath  thine,  some  step  may  wend 
Within  its  gloom,  to  find  my  beauty  lent 

A  quick  retrieve  where  doubtings  long  contend. 

< )  Lily  of  the  Valley,  with  new  aim 

Let  me  the  turmoils  of  the  world  engage  : 
For  true  submission  win  thy  fragrant  name, 
That    mine,    as    thine,    some    happiest    hour 
presage. 
12 


1 66  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

'  HEEE  is  an  attribute  of  nameless  gauge 
That  Stoic  may  repel,  cannot  refute  ; 
Philosophy  essay,  nor  yet  compute  : 
Its  virtue  this — perennial.  Through 

each  age 
It  curbs  the  savage  and  corrects  the 

sage, 
(Whose  inconcinnities,  whose  schemes 

astute 

Corrupt  their  reasons),  who  esteem  its  fruit, 
Which,  if  but  plucked,  matures  at  every  stage. 
Man  may  protest,  -  he  never  can  despise 

The  tempting  flavor  of  its  wholesome  cheer  : 
If  now  unblest,  yet  blessed  memories  rise, 
And  rise  to  soothe,  be  whatso'er  his  sphere. 

Its  home,  the  heart ;  its  beacon-fire,  the  eyes. 
Affection  'tis — that  gift  without  compeer. 


SONNET. 


I67 


TO  MYSIE. 

(With  the  Eosebud.) 

'ITHIN  thy  hair 

This  rosebud  bear  : 
Let  it  thy  many  dreamings 

share  : 
Though  it  be  now  the  young  and 

glistening  morn, 
Far  up  the  heated  day  let  it  be 

borne. 

If  joyous,  thou  wilt  have  to  spare  ; 
If  sorrowing,  tell  thy  secret  care  — 
But  love  it  everywhere. 

In  early  night 
When  glances  bright 
Are  sped  to  measures  of  delight, 
Or  mingled  with  a  language  low  entoned, 
Still  be  it  on  its  favored  seat  enthroned. 
Then  hours,  by  some  mysterious  right, 
Will,  too,  make  pastime  of  their  flight — 
Yet  still  its  love  invite. 

O  whisper  deep  ! 
When  thou  shalt  sleep 
Place  it  where  angels  watchings  keep  : 


1 68  POEMS. 

And  that  shall  be — where  'tis  reposing  now 
In  ripening  beauty — o'er  thy  blushful  brow  : 
And  Night-winds,  gazing  as  they  sweep, 
Back  to  its  unculled  mates  shall  creep, 
And,  envious,  they  shall  weep. 


ABSINOE. 

[Caesar  brought  Arsinoe  to  Rome;  but,  feeling  com 
passion  for  the  youthful  princess,  restored  her  to  free 
dom. —  C.  Com.~\ 

$  EAR  Rome.     In  its  splendor  the  day  is 

declining  ; 

They  have  led  forth  the  fair  Alexan 
drian  maid  : 
There  she  rests,   like  some  statue,  in 

pensive  repining, 

Gazing  deep  down  in  Tivoli's  foam 
ing  cascade. 

They  mercifully  leave  her;  so,  kindly  befriending, 
They  mercifully  leave  her,  O  unspeakable  bliss  I 


A  RSI  NO  E.  169 

There  they  leave  her  alone,  with  emotions  con 
tending  ; 

Nor  could  friendship  devise  kinder  favor  than 
this. 

Above  her  are  .palaces,  loftily  towering 

In  settings  of  glittering,  unmatched  colonnades; 
But  she  heedeth  them  not — 'tis  in  Tivoli 's  shower 
ing 

That  her  soul  seems  enwrapt — 'midst  the  bright 
rainbow-shades. 

O'er  its  olive-clad  rampart  she  bends  in  her  dream 
ing. 
Now  some  thought,  for  its  recompense,  wins  a 

faint  smile  : 

She  hath  seen  in  rude  Tivoli's  torrent,  far-gleam 
ing, 

Some  resemblance  that  mocks  her  own  languish 
ing  Nile. 

Oh,   unhappy  transition  !    'tis   the  tempest  fore 
telling 
Of  tears  and  of  sighings  would  she  now  might 

restrain; 
For  her  thought  on  the  deed  of  the  morrow  is 

dwelling, 

When,  to  grace  the  great  triumph,  she  wears 
captive  chain. 


170 


POEMS. 


"  Can  he  ever  be  thus?  bears  that  heart  no  relent 
ing  ? 

O,  lead  me  to  Csesar;  I  will  deign  to  implore  : 
He  will  weep  in  compassion,  then,  in  pity  consent 
ing, 
Say,  'tis  sweeter,  far  sweeter,  than  triumph  in 

store." 

****** 

"Tis  by  Rome  :  and  again  as  the  day  is  declining. 
Far  adown  gushes  Tivoli's  foaming  cascade. 

And  the  one  that  dreams  there,  nor  yet  dreams  of 

repining, 
Is  the  fair  and  unshamed  Alexandrian  maid. 


SONNET. 


171 


SONNET. 

ji»» 

|f  HEN  on  my  brief  existence  I  reflect, 

There  seemetli  made  a  safer  path 

of  joy 
Than  idly  resting,  and  the   hours 

employ 
With  thought  of  past  and  future.    I 

detect, 
If.  I  of  dearest  times  past  recollect, 

A  shadow  mingling  in  unasked  alloy — 
'Tisthat  they  are  no  more:  and,  if  I  toy 
With  those  that  yet  await  me,  I  suspect 
Inquiet  longings.     But,  if  I  secure 

In  present  hours  do  their  good  exact, 
My  happiness  is  husband'd  to  endure; 
And  through  my  life  I  blessings  may  protract. 
By  this,  it  seem'th  to  me,  my  hours  assure 
Tranquillity  the  others  surely  lack'd. 


POEMS. 


THE  MATINS  BELL. 

HE  matins  bell  !  awake,  Sleeper,  awake! 
Ere  shall  be  heard 

The  first  shrill  signal  of  awakening  bird, 
If  thou  hast  err'd, 

Out  in  the  breaking  morn  thyself  be 
take  ! 


The  matins  bell !  its  music  asks,  Why  doubt  ? 

It  claims  thy  prayer. 
The  sky's  aflame  ;  dews  gleam  ;  'neath  it  repair, 

And,  trustful,  bear 
Midst  earth's  uplifted  praise,  thy  prayer  devout  ! 

Its  melodies  have  died  ;  its  tongue  is  still'd. 

Will't  come  again  ? 
O  pr'ythee,  ere  the  sun  gild  spire  and  pane, 

Annul  that  stain  ; 
And  walk  the  day,  thy  soul  with  rapture  fill'd  ! 


EPIGRAM. 

EPIGEAM. 

(Enforced  absence.) 


173 


TO 


ND  can  it  be 

That  Time  conspires  to   stay  his 
flight, 

And  change  for  me, 
The  blessings  of  the  grateful  light 
To  that  doth  so  resemble  night  ? 


Ask  some  pale  flower 
Transplanted  from  the  sun  and  dew, 

If  sweet  the  hour  ? 
No  !  No  !  'twill  cry,  and  weep  anew. 
I  am  that  flower  transposed  from  you. 


1 74  POEMS. 

SONNET. 

«nCrr 

k  OME,  doubter,  climb  with  me  yon  dizzy- 
peak. 

•**##* 


Thy  gaze  to'rd  distant  ocean  first  be 

bent : 
Then  nearer,  scanning  Nature's  vide 

extent, 

And  what  behold'st  ?     "Bright  riv 
ulets  that  eke 
That  ocean  ;  in  woods  of  vocal  tone  seek 

Happiest  inmates  ;  of  wondrous  hue  and  scent 
Bloom  beds  of  flowers  ;  the  fields,  in  colors 

blent, 

Stretched  to  immensity.     All  good  bespeak. 
Some  hand  to  deftly  limn  these  do  attest, 

Too,  of  exhaustless  skill ;  these  proof  upbear 
Of  intellect  untold.     Whose  hand  else  drest 
The  wave  in  silver,  decked  the  hued  parterre, 

Or  taught  the  rhythm  the  vocalist  express'd?" 
Such  handiwork  an  All- Wise  doth  declare. 


SONNET.  175 


SONNET. 

ENE    ears  drink  in  thy  soul-outpouring 

lay, 
Thou  love-lorn  Nightingale  !     Me- 

thinks  so,  erst, 
Thy  spell  came  o'er  me  ;  and,  by 

memory  nurs'd 
E'en  till  this  hour.  Over  Sorrento's 

bay, 
Wrapt  in  the  mellowest  tints  of  dying  day, 

I  hung  with  many  musings.     As  't  did  thirst 
For  deepest  sympathy  thy  plaintings  burst 
Upon  the  evening's  stillness,  died  away, 
And  left  me  marvelling.     This  summer-time 

Thou  mad'st  thy  flight, — from  Tasso's  byways 

woo'd, — 

And  tell'st  thy  sorrows  in  a  sterner  clime. 
See,  Philomela,  earth  again  endiied 

With  much  thou  lov'st,  with  emerald  fields 

and  thyme : 
Then  leave  me  not  in  more  than  solitude  ! 


1 76  POEMS. 

TO  A  SUNBEAM. 

HOU  trembling,  molten  beam 

Fresh  from  the  fount  of  light ! 
Didst  thou  leap  the  mighty  span, 
'Scape  the  chill  and  vaporous 

blight 
To  sink  with  uncorroded  gleam 

Upon  the  slumbering,earth ; 
And  warm,  again,  her  face  so  wan 
With  hopes  of  spring-time  birth  ? 

Yet,  tell  me  ere  thou  sink, 

And  fetters  thee  enfold. 
In  those  spaces  uurevealed, 

In  those  fastnesses  untold, 
Dost  thou  of  others  else  bethink 

In  thine  own  bright  attire  ? 
And  will  they  not  there  stay  concealed 

If  thou  so  soon  expire  ? 

Soft !  sunbeam,  thou  shalt  know 

What  answer  'tis  I  crave, — 
Now  into  my  breast  there  came 

With  the  glow  thy  presence  gave, 
A  hope  ;  its  beaming  cheers  me  so 

I'd  keep  it  long  delayed; 
But  if  none  other  bear  thy  name 

I  fear  it,  too,  may  fade. 


SONNET.  I7j 


SONNET. 

'PBEAD  o'er  the  South,  of  balmiest  gales 

and  bloom, 
There  flowers  a  shrub  that  seems 

the  veriest  pledge 
Of  beauteous  constancy.  If  noxious 

sedge 
Encompass   it,   unmindful  of   the 

gloom 
With  the  weird  fen's  it  mingles  its  perfume. 

The  traveller,  fainting  at  the  wayside's  edge, 
Shall  not  forget  it  :  o'er  the  frowning  ledge 
It  waves  undaunted.     Nor  did  he  presume 
Who  in  a  burning  and  remotest  land 

Hailed  it,   "  O  pride  of  India  !"     Oft  for  me, 
Pausing  'midst  scenes  all-lovely,  memory 

spann'd 
Eventful  days  and  NatiTre's  marquetry. 

Andthoustood'st  with  me,  Julia,  andlplannVl 
What  kinship  bore  this  Pride  of  Inde  to  thee. 


178  POEMS. 

A   TRIFLE   IT   WAS,    AS   LIGHT   AS    THE 
AIE. 


TRIFLE  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air 
(And  often  and  oft  to  recall  it  I've 
tried) 

That  lost  me  for  ever  a  maiden  fair, 
And  that  banished  my  promised  bride. 


In  time  it  was  even,  and  calm  and  still, — 
Would  our  passions  might  sleep  in  such  deep 

content ! 

And  we  stood  by  the  crystal,  laughing  rill, 
And  our  tones  with  its  murmuring  blent. 

A  trifle  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air, — 

Ah,  thou  envious  spirit — genius  of  Hate  ! 

Why  bring  me  so  grievous  a  burden  to  bear  ? 
Why  lay  on  my  heart  this  leaden  weight  ? 

Of  the  years  to  come,  and  the  years  but  flown, 
We  had  spoken  and  planned  'midst  the  starlight 
showers  : 

She  seemed  even  dearer  and  more  my  own 
For  the  future  seemingly  ours. 

O  the  sweet  delight  of  those  starlight  dreams  ! 
What  a  mockery,  too,  of  my  ceaseless  grief  ! 


A  TRIFLE  IT  WAS,  AS  LIGHT  AS  THE  AIR.       179 

Then  life  flowed  as  tranquil  as  those  soft  beams 
That  lodged  in  her  odorous  wreath. 

Some  trifle  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air  ; 

But  whether  it  was  I  or  my  own  dear  love 
That  changed  life's  bright  day  into  night's  despair 

Can  she  tell — or  the  stars  above  ? 

In  a  world  so  troubled  it  seems  not  right 

That  'fond  lovers  should  part,   and  then  not 
know  why  ; 

And  that  ties  so  strong  from  a  cause  so  slight 
Should  so  weaken,  and  break — and  die. 

Some  trifle  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air 

That  the  zephyrs  wafted  from  Egypta's  strand 

That  tarried  to  toy  with  her  fluttering  hair, 
And  her  deepening  blushes  fann'd. 

And  they  say  she  waited — grew  faint  at  heart  : 
But  that  day  I  was  proud,  and  I  thought  her 
cold. 

How  I've  sighed  in  vain,  with  miserly  art, 
For  the  loss  of  that  word  untold ! 

Some  trifle  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air, 

Disturbing  life's  waters  that  rested  as  clear 

As  that  crystalline  lake  called  Lemau,  where 
The  nightingale  plainteth  her  fear. 


i8o 


POEMS. 


I  trust  no  shadow  envelopes  her  hours  ; 

And  that  life  seems  as  fair  as  in  those  young 

days 
"When  we  walked  through  the  almost  silent  bower* 

With  the  carpeting  moonlight  rays. 

Some  trifle  it  was,  as  light  as  the  air — 
And  by  each  repented  ere  it  onward  sped  : — 

To  think  that  our  lives  should  such  shadows  bear 
For  a  word — then  a  word  unsaid  ! 


MY  MATE  AND  I. 

E  come,  my  mate  and  I,  belate  ; 
She  wears  a  blossoming  robe  of  state  ; 
See,  too,  what  wealth   of   bloom   and 

health 
She's  borrowed  from  each  flower  and 

elf: 

Keleased  from  chains  we  saw  the  light 
Subdue  the  long,  forbidding  night. 


MY  MATE  AND  I. 

O,  it  was  then  so  radiant  when 
We  heard  the  soul-outpouring  wren  : 
"  My  joy  be  thine.     O,  come  and  twine 
In  gay  festoons  each  spraying  vine  ; 
The  bellflower  sways,  by  airs  caressed  ; 
The  eglantine  in  beauty's  drest !" 

In  yonder  glade  we  long  delayed 

To  note  the  spoil  the  Hyblsean  made. 

O,  life  of  bliss  !  would  mine  were  this, — 

To  every  other  care  remiss, — 

To  rove  forever,  and  to  sip 

The  fragrance  from  the  jessamine's  lip. 

We  come,  my  mate  and  I,  belate  ; 
We  but  the  morrow's  coming  wait  : 
To  call  no  need,  for  we  shall  speed, — 
Our  pathway  '11  be  the  flowering  mead, — 
And  shades  shall  even  deeper  lie 
Ere  homeward  we,  my  mate  and  I. 


18 


182  POEMS. 

THE  BUKIAL  OF  PIZAEEO. 

[Pizarro,  after  an  unprecedented  career  of  conquest 
and  cruelty,  met  the  fate  he  so  richly  merited  —  the 
assassin's  dagger.  The  Cathedral  of  Lima  (Ciudad  de 
los  Reges)  was  profaned  by  placing  his  body  beneath. 
the  altar.] 


IUDAD  de  los  Eeges  ! 
Stand,  for  the  coming  dead  ! 
Onward  the  pageant  rolls  ; 
Deep-toned  the  minster  tolls  — 
Stand  ye  who  bled  ! 


Ciudad  de  los  Eeges  ! 
Gentle  mother,  hear  it  ! 
Gone  is  the  blighting  breath 
From  the  bold  scourge  of  Death 
Greet'st  thou  that  spirit  ? 

Ciudad  de  los  Eeges  ! 
Oh,  rather  bid  them  cast 
Him  forth  upon  the  earth 
Whose  heaven  he  made  a  dearth 
And  sinks  at  last. 

Ciudad  de  los  Eeges  ! 
Bounteous  treasure  extolled, 


THE  BURIAL  OF  PIZARRO. 

He,  all-atliirst,  allured 

By  dreams  of  gain,  endured 

All  for  our  gold. 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 
More  merciful,  less  fell 
Condor  on  yonder  peak, 
That  from  his  fastness  bleak 
Swoops  to  the  dell. 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 
'Twas  he — this  son  of  Spain, 
Who  left  in  blackened  track 
Of  iron  hoof  and  rack 
Unnumbered  slain. 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 

Thy  Inca  fetters  bore 

Till  death  unbound  the  chain, 

Forged  to  the  fearful  strain 

Of  battle  roar. 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 
The  father  vainly  kneel'd, 
And  mother,  for  the  child 
With  piteous  plea,  and  wild — 
His  heart  was  steeled. 


1 84  POEMS. 

Ciudad  de  los  Keges  ! 
The  captive,  too,  implored — 
To  meet  the  smile  of  Death  ; 
And  curse  -with  fainting  breath 
The  name  abhorred. 

Ciudad  de  los  Keges  ! 
Bless'd  mother,  dost  behold  ? 
See  !  'neath  the  holy  nave, 
And  dome,  and  architrave, 
They  bear  his  mould. 

Ciudad  de  los  Keges  ! 
What !  sleep  beside  the  saint 
Whose  hallowed  life  taught  prayer  ? 
Mingle  his  ashes  there  ? 
Their  rest  attaint  ? 

Ciudad  de  los  Keges  ! 
.    Could  then  the  vesper-peal, 
Soothing  the  heart  oppress'd 
With  ecstacy  of  rest, 
Invite  to  kneel  ? 

Ciudad  de  los  Keges  ! 
Languish  would  every  tongue  ; 
Pallid  grow  every  brow  ; 


THE  BURIAL  OF  PIZARRO.  185 

Falter  the  rising  vow 
By  anguish  rung. 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 

The  'bated  cry  didst  hear  ? 

"  Back,  menials  !  from  his  path — 

Temp'st  thou  his  sleeping  wrath  ? 

The  dead  is  near  !" 

Ciudad  de  los  Reges  ! 
'Neath  altar,  echoing  dome, 
With  Desolation's  blade 
Pizarro  lowly  laid  ! 
O  shamed  home  ! 


1  86  POEMS. 

FALTERING. 


HE  night,  for  promise  spread, 

Lies  darkly  clouded  : 
The  river's  throbbing  thread 

Flows  deeply  shrouded  ; 
The  vault  with  starry  gems  engrained, 
The  orb  that  in  her  beauty  waned, 

In  gloom  are  dying  ! 
For  night  and  flood,  for  orb  and  stars 
The  winds  are  sighing. 


Blest  harbinger  to  save, 

The  gales  are  veering  ! 
From  flood  and  starry  nave 

The  mists  are  clearing  ! 
The  orb  with  beauteous  crescent  dipp'd, 
The  dancing  wavelets,  silver-tipp'd, 

Are  ever  vieing. 
Within  my  soul,  O  constancy. 
Dream  not  of  dying  ! 


SONNET. 


SONNET. 

had    I    planned    thy    steps    thou 

shouldst  not  go. 
Thou  canst  not  soothe  me  with  the 

fond  deceit 
That  in  some  hast'ning  year  our  paths 

shall  meet, 
And  joy  be   sweeter  for  this  parting 

woe 

Than  we  have  known — and  else  can  never  know. 
How  sunless  is  thy  smile's  poor  counterfeit ! 
And  fainter  grows  thy  heart's  tale-telling  beat  ! 
This  were  not  didst  thou  truly  believe  it  so. 
Well,  I  will  hush  this  moaning  heart  and  bruised, 
Nor  picture  summer  days  and  thou  not  here. — 
Thou  veil'st  thine  eyes,  with  manful  tears  suf 
fused  ; 

They  say,  when  thou  art  gone  thou'lt  yet  be  near. 
Press,  lightly  press  this  hand  as  thou  art  us'd. 
Go,  and  remember  thou  art  doubly  dear. 


POEMS. 


SONNET. 

Assyrian    monarch    to    uphold    his 

throne,  • 

Set  it  on  man,  carved  in  war's  dread 

array, 
Whose  threatening  aspect  taught  man 

to  obey. 
That  subject   might  not  kindred  awe 

disown, 

The  Persian  his,  of  gold  and  glittering  stone, 
Upbuilt  in  crouching  form  of  beast  of  prey  ; 
•  And  millions  cried  allegiance  —  felt  dismay, 
And  curs'd  a  pride  to  impious  excess  grown. 
Beyond  e'en  these  my  Monarch's  realm  extends. 
My  Master's  state  uprests  on  truth  and  love. 
O'er  Asshur's  grandeur  desert-drift  ascends,  — 
My  Master's  mounts  th'  empyrean  heav'n  above: 
O'er  Elam's  buried  pomp  his  lion  wends,  — 
High  soars  my  Master's  gentle  symbol-dove. 


THE  DREAMERS.  ify 

THE  DBEAMERS. 

"  HIS  child,  in  pleasant  byways  kept, 

Who  sees  life  an  unchanging  May, 
Forgot  her  mates  ere  sunbeam  slept, 
And  stole  to  me  away. 

Upon  my  kindly  face  and  grave 

She  glanced;  and  then  upon  my  knee 

Its  rest  her  wearied  head  she  gave, 
Half  singing  musingly. 


She  very  often  seeks  me  so, — 
I  think  because  my  face  is  grave: 

She  thinks  I'm  busied  with  the  glow 
That  silvers  o'er  the  wave. 

That  on  some  orb  my  thought  is  set  : 
So,  struggling  with  its  quaint  conceit, 

And  busied  so  must  needs  forget 
The  dreamer  at  my  feet. 

And  so  she  sings,  or  murmurs  o'er 
Some  fancy  I  have  given  tone  ; 

And  murmurs  it  to  love  it  more 
And  make  it  more  her  own. 


POEMS. 

Than  all  the  pleasant  hours  are 
There  is  an  hour  endeared  to  me — 

WThen  fancy  leaves  the  wave  and  star 
For  dreamer  at  my  knee. 

As  thus :  what  devious  paths — say  fair — 
Of  leagues  untold  its  feet  nmst  tread  ! 

Where  shall  it  then,  oppress'd  with  care, 
Thus  lay  its  drooping  head  ? 

Will  joy  be  her  unbroken  task 

(Such  as  to  be  these  hours  she  finds), 

And  shall  she  but  in  sunshine  bask 
Until  her  day  declines  ? 

Shall  thought  beneath  this  shining  brow 

To  images  of  beauty  turn  ; 
Or  fan  a  flame  that  slumb'ring  now 

Needs  but  a  breath  to  burn  ? 

Shall  this  fair  hand,  all  zeal,  engage 
To  do  the  mandates  of  the  heart; 

And  trace  the  ever-living  page 
With  Poesy's  deathless  art  ? 

Or  shall  she,  nameless,  walk  serene 
To  shed  abroad  her  woman's  grace, 

And  bring  contentment  to  the  scene 
That's  most  a  woman's  place  ? 


OAT  CONTENTMENT. 


I9r 


Would  Heav'n  for  me — Heav'n  stay  the  prayer  I 
'Twere  best  that  thought  no  utt'rance  gave ; 

'Twere  best  it  now  from  dreamer  bear 
Its  dreaming  to  the  wave. 


ON  CONTENTMENT. 

HORACE:  Ode  1,  Book  3. 


FROM   him  of   low  desires,  uncared  to- 

rise, 
My  soul  revolts  —  from  him  I  turn  mv 

*  J 


eyes. 

In  silence  listen,  words  unheard   be 
fore, 
Ye  youths  and  virgins,  in  your  ears  I 

pour. 

Dread  sovereigns  o'er  their  subjects  have  control;. 
The  kindred  giants  Jupiter  extol, 
Who  with  his  nod  the  realm  of  Nature  shakes, 
And  at  whose  glance  the  haughtiest  Titan  quakes. 
Because,  forsooth,  this  man  in  goodly  row 
Beholds  in  thrifty  bloom  his  forests  grow, 


1 92  POEMS. 

He  lays  his  claim  to  nurture  well  tlie  state : 
The  second  protests — argues  happier  fate 
From  him  within  whom  growing  honor  lies — 
And  his  own  worth  and  virttie  loudly  cries : 
The  third  prefers  his  right — to  long  contend, 
And  boasts  how  myriads  on  his  store  depend. 
But  Fate,  by  all-impartial,  fixed  laws, 
Kevolves  the  urn,  each  name  unbiased  draws. 
How  can  that  man  his  revelling  hours  enjoy 
When  hangs  a  point  with  purpose  to  destroy  ? 
Can  the  Sicilian  dainties  relish  bring    ' 
If  o'er  his  brow  the  deadly  dagger  swing  ? 
The  tuneful  lyre,  the  birds  with  soothing  songs 
Bring  not  the  soft  repose  for  which  he  longs. 
Sleep  to  the  peasant  is  a  frequent  guest, 
And  in  his  cottage  loves  to  linger  best: 
If  at  the  dawn  he  fly  his  barless  doors, 
At  eve  returns  from  Tempe's  zephyred  shores. 
He  with  a  competence,  assur'd,  possess'd, 
Views  the  tempestuous  sea — nor  feels  distress'd: 
Arcturus  in  his  wrathful  fury  sets, 
Yet,  in  his  heart  no  anxious  doubt  begets. 
No  vineyard  he  to  tempt  the  ruthless  hail  ; 
No  waving  fields  to  droop  before  the  gale  ; 
No  fruitful  lands,  with  bounteous  rains  submerged, 
Or  else  by  rays  from  fiery  planets  scourged. 
The  swift  finn'd  tribes,  that  mighty  waters  range, 


ON  CONTENTMENT.  193 

Behold  the  sea's  foundations  ever  change  : 
And  lordly  man,  disdainful  of  the  land, 
Sends  down  the  chosen  hirelings  of  his  band  ; 
Yet  apprehension  ne'er  forsakes  his  mind — 
Care  mounts  the  galley  as  the  knight  behind. 
Since  then,  nor  Phrygian  block,  nor  gay  attires, 
Bring  the  contentment  that  my  soul  desires  ; 
Falernian  vine,  nor  yet  the  Persian  herb 
Drown  pot  the  troublings  that  my  hours  disturb, 
Shall  I  some  lofty  edifice  erect, — 
Since  I  the  breath  of  envy  must  expect, — 
With  peerless  column,  modern  taste  adorned, 
To  hear  my  motive  and  its  beauty  scorned  ? 
"Why  give  contentments  of  my  Sabine  Vale 
For  troubles  oft  possessed  wealths  entail  ? 


,94  POEMS. 

TO  THALIABCHUS. 

HORACE  :  Ode  9,  Book  1. 

BEHOLD  Soracte  clad  in  snows  ; 

The  woods  their  leafy  burdens  cast ; 
Nor  longer  on  the  river  flows — 

Frost's  icy  sharpness  binds  it  fast. 
Dispute  the  cold  :  pile  high  the  blaz 
ing  boughs ! 

O  Thaliarchus,  forget  not  your  vows  ! 
To  cheer  the  coming  youths  afar 

The  cheerful  flames  now  upward  twine. 
Now,  Thaliarchus,  from  the  jar 

Pour  out  the  generous,  ruby  wine. 
Leave  to  the  gods  the  vexious  ills  of  life  : 
Think  you  no  more  must  mingle  in  the  strife. 
When  winds  the  fervid  ocean  lash 

The  vales  in  peace  repose, 

The  cypress  and  the  aged  ash 

Forget  their  coming  woes. 

To  ask  the  morrow's  hap  forbear  : 

Treasure  this  hour's  unquestioned  gain  : — 
Come,  fill  the  cup, — nor  think  to  share 

This  draught  with  any  future  pain. 
Joys  of  the  young,  O  pleasant  love  and  dances, 
Abide  with  us,  affrighting  Time's  mischances  ! 


TO  qUINTWS  DELLIUS.  195 

As  on  the  mellow  hours  glide, 

The  song  and  whisper  oft  repeat — 
As  in  the  hour  of  eventide 

Where  Tiber  laves  our  Martius'  feet. 
Give  you  no  heed  whence  sweetest  echo  wends, — 
"Well  with  the  mirth  coy  damsel's  laughter  blends. 
He'd  seize  some  token  from  her  arm, — 

Since  eye  in  vain  appeal'd, — 
What  hour  so  fit  to  win  a  charm, 

Contending  love  would  yield  ? 


TO  QUINTIUS  DELLIUS. 

HORACE  :  Ode  3,  Book  2. 

DELLIUS,  repel  not  from  your  mind 
...     That  life,  a  dream,  by  you  must  be 

resigned. 

Since  this  is  so,  your  stores  of  joy  ex 
pand 

If  you  bethink  its  changings  to  with 
stand  : 

Do  not  shrink  under  Fortune's  angry  frown, — 
The  fruitful  germ  the  husbandman  cast  down, 


I96  POEMS. 

Which,  lying  hidden  long  in  deepest  gloom 
Sprang  forth,  bore  fruit,  and  gladdened  with  its 

bloom : 

Nor  yet,  if  viewing  some  unhoped  result, 
Think  o'er  your  friend,  less  happy,  to  exult. 
If  nurturing  sadness  in  remotest  spot, 
Or  if  to  pleasure  gods  your  hours  allot 
And  lead  you  on  to  some  inviting  vale 
With  ease  and  wine  your  hours  to  regale, 
While  you  recline  within  some  grateful  shade 
The  lofty  pine  and  hoary  poplar  made, 
And  upward  gaze  as  sunny  cloudlets  flit, 
Or  drink  with  rapture  from  the  rivulet, 
It  is  decreed,  and  these  change  not  your  fate — 
Our  hours  the  coming  Sisters  but  await ! 
Bid  slaves  bring  wine,  perfumes  of  wondrous  cost : 
Not  for  a  future  let  this  day  be  lost. 
Think,  Dellius,  depart,  and  soon,  you  must ; 
With  you  your  treasures  crumble  not  to  dust. 
O  no  !  a  longing  and  impatient  heir 
Makes  them  his  waking  and  his  sleeping  care  ; 
Surveys  your  villas  and  computes  your  groves, 
And,  penniless,  expectant  master  roves. 
It  matters  not  if  sprung  from  humblest  race, 
Whose  ancestors  no  ancient  records  tr.ace  ; 
Nor  yet  could  Argos  claim  thy  noble  sire — 
From  this  fair  scene  you  surely  shall  retire. 


TO  L1CINIUS  Atl'RENA. 


197 


All  are  alike — unsheltered  from  the  air  ; 
And  envious  Pluto  takes  all  for  his  share. 
Remorseless  Fates  yet  turn  the  restless  wheel,, 
And  Atropos  yet  grasps  the  severing  steel 
Too  soon  to  cut  the  unresisting  thread — 
Forth  from  the  breast  the  living  spark  hath  ffed  ! 
Our  destiny — born,  linger  here  a  while  ; 
Embark  with  Charon  for  a  long  exile  ! 


TO  LICINIUS  MURENA. 

HORACE  :  Ode  10,  Book  2. 

f|TlCINIUS,  life's  ocean  you  may  tempt, 
If  you  with  prudence  shall  its  paths 

explore. 
Guide  not  your  bark  where  perils  ne'er 

exempt, 

Nor  yet,  too  timorous,  press  the  threat 
ening  shore. 

There  is  a  path,  in  it  you  safely  dwell — 

The  placid  current  'twixt  the  chafing  strands  ; 

The  virtuous  mean  that  shuns  the  hermit's  cell, — 
Nor  asks  the  palace  envied  greatness  plans. 

14 


198  POEMS. 

Th'  aspiring  pine  met  first  the  whirlwind's  rage  ; 

The  loftiest  tower  fell  heaviest  to  the  dust ; 
The  tempests  first  opposing  mounts  engage, 

And  deep  within  their  forked  lightnings  thrust. 

Discerning  souls  hope  on  whilst  least  they  may, 
And  banish  hope  when  most  they  hold  the  right ; 

The  taper  pales  its  beams  before  the  day, 
To  shine  the  clearer  at  the  hastening  night. 

Depressing  Winter,  with  his  hoary  train, 
Great  Jupiter  sends  forth — to  soon  recall ; 

Though  luckless  venture  now  deny  you  gain, 
No  kindred  fate  your  future's  may  befall. 

Apollo  lulls  him  with  Euterpe's  art, 

And  drinks  the  transports  of  the  modest  Muse  ; 
He  flings  aside  his  bow  and  cruel  davt, 

Whilst  in  his  breast  her  softest  strains  diffuse. 

Bring  forth  your  treasures  when  you  need  your 
friend ; 

And  happiest  be  when  happiest  thoughts  avail. 
'Twere  best,  Licinius,  when  the  sails  extend 

To  watch  for  changings  of  the  prosperous  gale. 


OUT  ON  THE  MYSTIC  SEA.  jg9 

OUT   ON   THE   MYSTIC   SEA. 
i. 

— on  the  mystic  sea 

Far,  far  from  me  ; 

Down,  down  a  sunset  sea  by  zephyrs 
fann'd — 

Cradled  to  sleep. 

When  from  the  west  the  ruddy  wave 
lets  flow, 
When  at  the  eve  the  dying  tintings  glow, 

Thy  trysting  keep  ! 
A  cry,  a  wafture  of  a  jewell'd  hand — 
Out  on  the  mystic  sea 
Lost,  lost  to  me  ! 

n. 

Over  the  mystic  sea 
The  false-rose  came  to  me  ; 
A  lowering,  sunless  sea  it  came  across. 

Its  bloom  distill'd  : 

A  love  that's  yet  unpledg'd  another  woos  ! 
In  warmer  strain  than  thine  another  sues  ! 

My  heart  was  chill'd. 

Back  !  haste  thee  back,  where  mocking  wavelets 
toss — 

Back  to  the  moaning  sea — 
Dark'ning  to  me  ! 


Up  from  the  mystic  sea 

The  heart's  ease  came  to  me  ; 
A  melting,  sunset  sea  'twas  wafted  o'er— 

To  lull  my  fears  : 

I  breathe  of  thee  to  each  departing  wind  ; 
I  bathe  this  emblem  to  the  waves  consigned,. 

With  love's  own  tears  ! 
Than  this,  so  gladdening  missive  never  bore 

The  wondering  sea — 

Hark'ning  to  me. 


TO  GROSPHUS. 


TO  GKOSPHUS. 

HORACE  :  Ode  16,  Book  2. 

GKOSPHUS,  luckless  is  the  man  allur'd 
To  the  wide  ^Egean,  night's  bright  orb 

obscur'd. 
With  not  one  star  the  hidden  course  to 

mark 

And  promise  safety  to  his  tossing  bark. 
In  such  dark  hours  his  heart  one  refuge 

knows  — 
To  pray  the  gods  for  safety  and  repose. 

So,  for  repose  the  war-worn  Thracian  cries  ; 
And  'tis  for  this  the  quivered  Median  sighs  — 
To  find,  alas  !  the  gift  is  not  secure, 
Nor  sword  nor  ransom  yet  its  charms  procure  : 
Nor  princely  bribe,  nor  deputy  can  bind 
And  banish  tumult  from  the  burdened  mind. 


For  peace  that  man  a  good  foundation  lays 
Whom  yet  delights  the  board  of  humbler  days. 
For  sordid  wishes  plenteous  vaults  to  heap 
Mar  not  his  day,  nor  trespass  on  his  sleep. 
Why  do  we,  by  our  arrogance  misled, 
Hoard  up  a  store  that  others  use  instead  ? 
Why  fly  our  climate,  'neath  another  sun 
Begin  a  task,  to  vanish  ere  'tis  done  ? 


202  POEMS. 

Whoever  yet  from  country  an  exile 
Persuaded  Care  to  linger  home  the  while  ? 
He  would  not  listen.     Care,  consuming  Care 
Boards,  too,  his  ship,  and  will  his  exile  share  : 
Than  stag  more  fleet,  or  yet  the  Orient's  wind, 
Care  soon  o'ertakes  him,  though  delayed  behind. 

A  mind  at  rest,  and  joyful  for  its  state, 
Asks  for  no  more,  and  thanks  the  watchful  Fate. 
In  patience  walks  the  fiery  hours  of  trial ; 
And  views  correction  with  a  placid  smile  ; 
And  feels  how  true  it  is,  how  oft  express'd 
That  not  with  life  is  man  completely  bless'd. 
Achilles  died — nor  yet  for  death  mature  ; 
Tithonus  lived — but  youth  could  not  endure  ; 
And  time  may  me  from  countless  ills  defend, 
And  yet  to  you  no  courtesies  extend. 
For,  now,  towards  you  the  waves  of  fortune  flow — 
Flocks  loudly  bleat,  Sicilian  heifers  low  ; 
Your  steeds  in  costly  trappings  swiftly  fly  ; 
And  vestured  you  in  robes  of  Tyriau  dye. 
But  Fate  my  arts  have  never  yet  suborned — 
She  found  me  lowly,  keeps  me  unadorned. 
Yet  this   she  grants,  more  prized  than  robe  of 

down, — 

A  secret  spurning  for  the  rustic's  frown  ; 
And  this  besides, — than  this  I  would  not  choose, — 
A  silent  hour  with  the  Grecian  Muse. 


EXQUISITE  DRAPERIES  HANGING  IN  THE  WEST.     203 


EXQUISITE  DRAPERIES  HANGING  IN 
THE  WEST. 

(JUNE   THE   TWENTY-SECOND.) 

|  XQUISITE   draperies   hanging  in  the 

west, 

Of  purple,  yellow,  and  the  warmest  red. 
Long  journeyed  he  who  burning  sank 

to  rest. 
"  Tell  me,  what  day  is  this  so  sweetly 

dies  ? 

Comes  such  another  ?    Too,  too  soon  'tis  sped  !  " 
In  answer  whisper,  whilst  the  soft,  dark  eyes 
Break  from  the  colorings  of  the  western  skies, 
"  Year's  longest,  fairest,  happiest  day  is  dead." 


2O4 


THE  HOURS. 

'  HERE  is  an  all-enrapturing  hour — 
When  morn  (the  sea  and  sky  ascend 
ing 

Since  rousing  from  his  Orient  bower) 
With  a  more  constant  hue  seems  blend 
ing. 

The  ruddy  hour  is  youth — when  joy 
At  childhood's  every  prayer  comes  thronging. 
The  change — when  ripening  years  alloy 
With  promise  of  a  worthier  longing. 

There  is  an  hour — the  full  noon  hour — 

With  myriad  forms  the  ocean  whit'ning  : 
That  laugh  at  Tempest's  threatening  power — 

Their  present  toil  some  future  bright'ning. 
The  scene  responds  to  life  :  the  forms 

At  hazard  with  life's  heartless  ocean 
Are  manhood's — heedless  of  the  storms, 

And  ardent  for  the  wild  commotion. 

There  is  an  hour — a  silent  hour  — 

That's  sacred  to  the  evening's  shading. 

This  sunbeam  sighs  that  shadows  lower  ; 
With  true  submission  this  is  fading. 


ON  HIS  OWN  WORKS. 


The  too  soon  hour  is  age  ;  regrets 

Mayhap  enfold  with  ceaseless  thronging. 

The  change — when  drooping  age  forgets 
Its  nearest  for  a  worthier  longing. 


ON  HIS  OWN  WORKS. 

HOBACE:  Odo  30,  Book  3. 

£"  CROWN  my  finished  monument. 
It  shall  endure  though  long  be  spent 
The  Northwind's  unavailing  power, 
And  the  insidious,  wastf ul  shower  ; 
Nor  Years  in  unrelaxing  might, 
Nor  Seasons  in  recurrent  flight 
Cast  it  with  their  destroying  hands 

To  mingle  with  the  ruthless  sands. 

I  shall  not  die  ;  my  better  part 

Calls  not  for  Libitina's  art. 

While  priest  and  vestal  shall  ascend 

The  Capitol,  so  long  contend 

Successive  ages  to  prolong 

Praises  to  my  melodious  song. 


2o6  POEMS. 

Where  Aufidus  with  cheerful  mirth 
('Twas  thus  he  murmured  at  my  birth), 
Leaps  o'er  the  plain  with  rapid  stride  ; 
Where  Daunus'  thrifty  sons  reside 
Shall  it  be  said  :  By  minstrel  tongue 
Were  softer  measures  never  sung  ! 
In  wonderment  that  my  refrain 
Can  woo  the  coy  ^Eolic  strain. 
Melpomene  !  the  praise  be  thine, 
Since  I  may  wear  the  Delphic  vine. 


I  AM  DYING,  EGYPT,  DYING. 

(Antony  and  Cleopatra.) 

j£  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ! 
Bend  thee  lowly  to  the  sand  ; 
Soothe  me  with  thy  loving  hand. 
(Stay,  O  Death,  thou  all-denying  !) 
Of  the  thousand  fond  caresses, 
This,  thy  last,  the  damp  brow  presses. 

Dark'ning,  Egypt,  ever  dark'ning  ! 
Hast  thou  then  no  bitter  tears — 


/  AM  DYING,  EGYPT,  DYING.  207 

Ere  the  hastening  shadow  nears  ? 
Nearer,  nearer  to  my  hark'ning  ! 
Where  my  fainting  sense  shall  hear  it 
Pour  the  fulness  of  thy  spirit. 

Fading,  Egypt,  day  is  fading  ! 
Is  it  that  Death's  shadow  creeps, 
That  thy  stricken  spirit  weeps  ? 
Is  thy  torment  in  upbraiding, 
That  the  love  of  which  thou  gavest 
Brought  dishonor  to  a  bravest  ? 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ! 
Quick  !  the  death-repulsing  wine. 
Pledge,  by  all  that  love  of  thine, 
When  thou  seest  me  basely  lying 
Thou  wilt  then,  repelling  sorrow, 
Thought  of  vanished  greatness  borrow. 


308  I-OEMS. 


SONNET. 

times,   on    day   of   fervid   Summer's 

reign, — 
When   in   sore    anguish   droop'd   each 

thirsting  plant 
As     quite     despairing, — then,      behold, 

aslant 

The  long  drawn  beams,  that  for  no  in 
stant  wane 

Until  their  fount  yon  glowing  verge  attain, 
Fall  tiny  streamlets,  whose  rich  graces  grant 
Reviving  draughts  for  which  the  full  fields  pant, 
And  new  existence  to  the  velvet  plain. 
O  healthful  influence  of  the  bursting  shower — 
Scarce  dim  the  sunshine,  bring  the  earth  relief, 
Lend  each  beam  beauty,  verdure  darker  green  ! 
Must  cloud  hang  o'er  thee  thus  I'd  have  it  lower  : 
To  thine    own  blessing  spend   its  wholesome 

grief— 
And  give  the  freshness  of  the  sunshower  scene. 


TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE,  <fc.  209 


TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE  ABOUT  TO 
ENGAGE  IN  CIVIL  WAR. 

HORACE  ;  Ode  7  of  the  Book  of  the  Epodes. 
* 

f  HY,  O  impious  men,  this  haste  ? 
Go  ye  forth  again  to  waste 

Store  of  Roman  blood  ? 
Have  ye  not  too  oft  bedewed 
Field  and  ocean's  solitude 

With  a  crimson  flood  ? 

Shame  upon  ye  that  ye  turn 

Not  where  men  of  Carthage  spurn 

That  ye  long  delay  ! 
That  yon  Briton  yet  disdains 
Power  of  legion,  nor  in  chains 

Treads  your  sacred  way. 

Will  ye  give  the  Parthian  joy  ? 

That  ye  thus  your  swords  employ- 
Thrills  him  with  delight : 

See  !  he  cries,  our  haughty  foe 

Deals  himself  the  deadly  blow — 
Topples  in  his  might  ! 


210  POEMS. 

Think  ye  !  in  the  brutish  race 
Did  ye  ever,  watchful,  trace 

Deed  like  this  denned  ? 
Wolf  and  lion  for  the  mate 
Show  compassion — spend  their  hate 

On  aggressive  kind. 

Give  the  answer,  nor  withhold  : 
If  by  madness,  crime  controll'd 

Or  the  restive  arm  ? 
All  are  silent ;  faces  pale 
Ere  the  guilty  soul  prevail — 

Urging  on  to  harm  ! 

By  a  stern  fatality, 
Romans,  must  this  ever  be  I 

So,  ye  stand  dismay'd  ! 
'Twas  for  this  our  Remus  sank  ; 
That  the  earth  a  torrent  drank 

Fresh  from  brother's  blade  ! 


HYMN. 
I. 

Lord,   my  guard,  my  watcher,  and 

my  guide, 

Thou     ever    present,    ever    faithful 
.^  friend, 

\     Than  thee  what  refuge  have  I  eke  be 
side  ? 

Yet  I've  no  merit  that  can  me  com 
mend. 


II. 

Doth  not  thy  love  from  love  like  mine  revolt  ? 

I  give  thee  chiding  when  I  owe  thee  praise  : 
Though  grieved,  thou  striv'st  to  mend  each  harmful 
fault. 

I  wound  thee  in  a  thousand  needless  ways. 

III. 

I  see  thy  wondrous  power.     I  know  the  hand 
That  set  the  earth  arid  heavens  must  be  divine. 

The  glittering  hosts  wheel  on  at  thy  command  ; 
No  will  rebellious  to  thy  will — save  mine. 


212  POEMS. 

IV. 

The  deep-stirred  ocean  symbols  forth  thy  wrath  ; 

And  thunders  but  reverberate  thy  tone  ; 
Thy  glance  would  be  the   lightning's  withering- 
path  : 

And  all  revere  thee — all  save  I  alone. 

V. 

Thy  generous  gifts  unstintedly  are  poured  ; 

I  them  at  morning,  noon  and  eve  expect. 
I  take  these  gifts—  and  pass  thee  unadored. 

Canst  thou  spare  me  and  this,  too,  recollect  ? 

VI. 

Down,  down,  sad  soul,  in  thy  humility  ! 

A  barren  homage  'tis  thou  pay'st  at  best. 
How  can  He  more  extend  his  gifts  to  me  ? 

Sink,  head,  upon  the  now  tormented  breast  L 


ALTHAEA  AND  MARIGOLD.  2 

ALTH.EA  AND  MABIGOLD, 

EEGAL,  royal  Marigold, 
My  secret  I  may  not  unfold  ! 
When  came  the  far-outrunning 

beams 

I  broke  me  from  my  drowsy  dreams  ; 
I  sought  thee  — of  the  dawning  hour 
The  proudest  and  the  queenliest 

flower. 

0  heartless,  heartless  Marigold, 

My  dream  of  dreams  shall  not  be  told  ! 

Thy  blooming  mates  have  called  in  vain  : 

1  brushed  them  by  in  quick  disdain. 
Stay  !  stay  !  cries  sweetest  Mignonette, 
Why  these  surpassing  churms  forget  ? 
While  Marjoram,  in  arts  unlearned, 
Her  thought  in  artless  blushes  burned  : 
Nay  !  echoed  Amaryllis,  nay  ! 

Not  from  my  splendor  turn  away  ! 

And  I  :  My  eyes  the  dewy  glance 
Of  Marigold  shall  soon  entrance  ! 
O  comrades  of  the  summer  field, 
Shall  it  the  rapturous  answer  yield  ? 
In  semblance  hers,  too,  doth  there  dwell 
A  heart  to  love  her  lover  well  ? 
They  mocked  me  ;  vowed  thee,  Marigold, 
What  I  have  found  thee — cruel,  cold  ! 

15 


214  FOE  MS. 


SONNET  :  FOE  JANUARY. 

1  HE  disenthralled  and  uncorrupted  band 
Sweeps  down  from  chilling  realms. 

Its  store  expends 
In  one  symphonious  whole.     The 

prospect  blends  : 
And  lo  !  the  panoply  by  Grandeur 

plann'd, 

With  moor  reluctant  to  the  swain's  demand, 
In  purity  harmoniously  lends 
An  unmatched,  surfaced  tablet,  that  contends 
To  take  the  tracings  of  the  Master-hand. 

And  thus  the  soul,  by  nobler,  pure  desires 
Its  lavish  or  its  meaner  dress  conceals 
By  fairer  aspect :  and,  new  born,  aspires 

To  purposes  this  fresh  emotion  yields. 

And  all  bewonder'd  muses  past  attires — 
And  wondering,  germs  of  excellence  reveals. 


UNRECONCILED.  2\ 

UNEECONCILED. 

'WAS  in  the  eventide 

She,  wistful,  ever  tried 
To  whisper  what  they  said  might 
be  my  name. 

They  led  me  to  her  side 
With  blanched  face  and  flying 

step.     I  came— 
To  see  her  smile,  and  fold  a  lifeless  frame, 
And  be  my  name  denied. 

It  was  a  cruel  blow. 

And  when  I  told  them  so, 
They  sadly  smiled,  and  said,  Mayhap  tis  well, 

But  then  how  could  they  know  ? 
I,  in  fierce  anguish  turning,  bade  them  tell 
How  all-progressive  time  could  break  the  speD 

Of  my  immortal  woe. 

'Tis  wett.'—I'n  not  believe  ! 

Such  words  shah1  never  weave 
Attuned  chords  to  suit  my  heart's  refrain. 

Would  that  I  might  conceive 
The  sun  to  sink  forever  'neath  yon  plain, — 
So  careless  am  I  if  he  rise  again, 

So  deeply,  deeply  grieve  ! 


216 


POEMS. 


(To 


SONNET. 


,  with  the  Odes  of  Pindar.) 


HE  Macedonian  prince,  his  rage  to  sate, 
Gave  up  the  Cadmean  town  to  dread- 

ful  flame  ; 
And  thought  by  horrid  act  his  foe  to- 

tame 
And    feed    base    pride  ;    unwitting, 

that,  innate, 
In  lowly  hovel,  so  on  throne  of  state 
There  is  a  power  in  a  worthy  name. 
Such  now  before  the  monarch's  reason  came  — 
A.nd  mercy  show'd  to  grace  his  deed  of  hate. 
Whose  wrought  revulsion,  and  could  pity  urge  ? 
It  was  our  poet's  —  him  thou'lt  now  peruse. 
Oft  in  my  bosom  waves  of  scorning  surge,  — 
Since  men  the  evil,  not  the  better  choose,  — 
To  sink  anon  ;  in  kindlier  aspect  merge  : 
'Tis  when  upon  thine  honored  name  I  muse. 


INVOCATION.  217 


INVOCATION. 

f;  OLHYMNIA,  sweet,  meditative  Muse, 
Wilt  tliou  forsake  me  ?  wilt  tliou,  then, 
refuse 


To  fan  within  this  breast  the  subtle  flame 
With  thy  quick  breath  ?  O  rash,  unfruit 
ful  aim — 
To  sweep  the  strings  when  tliou  art  far 

away, 

Hoping  for  strains  responsive  to  the  lay  ! 
Thou  art  more  near:  in  night's  deep,  silent  hour 
Choosing  to  contemplate.     Behold,  thy  power 
The  flickering  flame  awaits  !  Thou  drawest  near, 
And  poesy,  exultant,  quells  her  fear  ! 
O,  let  thine  own  soft  presence,  'till  the  dawn 
Presents  the  steeded  chariot  of  the  morn, 
Linger  about  me:  lest  it  come,  undimm'd, 
To    note     my    lyre     unstrung — my    theme    un- 
hymn'd. 


2l8  POEMS. 

LINES. 

"  The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension."  M.  for  M. 

\h  HEN  wayworn  and  o'ertask'd,  'tis  well 

for  thee 

?To  cast  thy  frame  on  downiest  of  beds 
While  wafts  the  spirit  o'er  oblivion's  sea, 
Or  takes  some  path  which  it,  delight 
ed,  treads. 
Did  memory  grieve — belike  the  grief's 

forgot ; 

Thy  hope  high  winging — yet  it  upward  dares  ; 
If  thou  art  humblest— now  it  frets  thee  not ; 
And  here  is  rest  for  him  of  weightiest  cares. 
Wouldst  thou  withhold    from   sleep's  encircling 

arms 

Because  it  sought  thee  with  unpromised  date  ? 
Would  wakefulness,  environed  by  its  harms, 
Not  seem  to  thee  by  far  a  sterner  fate  ? 
Since  death's  a  dateless  sleep,  we  need  not  dread 
The  dear  employments  of  the  happier  dead. 


SONG.  219 

SONG. 

[Knight  of  the  Twelfth  Century.] 

king  is  proud :  his  fleur-de-lis 
Floats    from    his    foeman's    loftiest 

wall. 

Saint  Louis  is  the  brimming  pledge 
In  yon  ancestral  hall. 


My  steed  is  proud  :  he  gladly  neighs  ; 
His  neck  of  gold  in  fealty  curves  ; 
He  bears  to  list  of  knightly  fray 
The  mailed  knight  he  serves. 

My  heart  is  proud  :  for  Beauty's  sake 

I  set  this  day  a  trusty  lance. 
I  die  ;  or  on  my  breast  I  wear 

The  loveliest  flower  of  France. 


22O 


1'OEMS. 


THE   BATTLER. 

HE  Battler  gazed  the  table  round, 

Then  fell  his  heavy  hand  : 
Now  by  the  toinb  and  by  the  cross 

The  Moor  shall  leave  the  land  : 
I  nightly  vow  it  in  my  dreams  ; 

I  swear  it  when  I  waken  : 
The  infidel  shall  fly  this  realm — 

Toledo  town  be  taken  ! 

Then  brighter  grew  each  liegeman's  eye, 

And  dai'ker  grew  each  frown, 
As,  breathing  forth  his  haughty  threat, 

The  Battler  sat  him  down. 
Dead  silence  reigned  within  the  hall, 

As  filled  each  ruby  cup, 
Then  right,  then  left,  each  grandee  gazed, 

And  to  his  feet  sprang  up. 

Now  in  the  name  of  our  Castile. 

Now  by  thy  kingly  name, 
It  was  for  this  with  ringing  hoof 

My  fiery  charger  came  ! 
If  thou  speak'st  truth,  by  plume  and  spur, 

The  dusky  Moor  shall  rue 
The  hour  he  spurned  his  desert  home 

And  cross'd  yon  sea  of  blue  ! 


THE  BATTLER. 

Deep,  deep  they  drink  :  the  Battler  now 

Pushed  far  his  chair  of  oak 
To  clasp  with  iron  clasp  each  hand, — 

'Twas  thus  again  he  spoke  : 
Ere  set  of  sun  at  morrow  eve 
-     A  puissant  horde  shall  near  ; 
They  come  to  greet  Toledo  town 

With  banner,  strain,  and  spear. 

Out  boldly  spoke  Gallicia's  son  : 

From  snowy  fastness,  I : 
Than  not  to  draw  a  freeman's  breath 

'Twere  better  far  to  die  ! 
We  are  a  numbered  band  and  brave, 

Nor  long  may  stay  the  shock, 
But  let  us  keep  at  morrow  eve 

Toledo's  guardian  rock  ! 

'Tis  well !  the  Battler  cries,  'tis  death  ! 

Get  each  man  to  his  shrine, 
And  ask,  with  fervid  prayer,  a  charm — 

As  I'll  away  to  mine  : 
I'll  bid  my  charger  to  it  straight — 

Deep  in  the  wood  confin'd. 
I  speed  a  score  of  leagues  this  night 

Of  beating  rain  and  wind  ! 


The  vizor  hides  the  burning  eye  ~, 

He  turns  upon  his  heel  — 
Across  the  court  and  swinging  bridge 

Is  heard  the  ringing  steel. 
He  flies  ;  and  all  unreined  he  knows, — 

That  gallant  steed  he  rides  ! 
He'll  bear  the  Battler  to  his  shrine 

With  long  and  trusty  strides. 

On,  on  (so  hours)  'ueath  roaring  top 

Of  leaf,  and  sighing  bough, — 
That  untired  steed  has  checked  his  flight- 

The  shrine's  before  him  now. 
The  Battler's  hand's  upon  the  door  : 

What  is't  his  eyes  shall  greet, 
That  gives  his  eyes  a  softer  light, 

His  heart  a  quicker  beat  ? 

The  Battler's  little  daughter  'tis, 

Deep  hidden  in  the  wold  ; 
A  menial's  watchful  care  is  she, 

With  mother-care  untold. 
He  knows  that  she  must  sweetly  sleep,  - 

As  when  he's  gazed  before 
To  lend  his  arm  that  ardent  strength, 

A  deadlier  name  to  war. 


THE  BATTLER.  22? 

With,  folded  arm  yet  ponders  he 

Where  long  the  lashes  rest ; 
Bends  low  to  meet  the  rising  prayer 

The  parted  lips  express'd  : 
' '  Jesu,  when  in  the  lonely  night 

The  Battler  rides  afar 
That  harm  befall  him  not,  I  pray 

He  be  as  angels  are." 

A  treacherous  tear  from  Battler's  eye, 

The  rounded  cheek  alarms  ; 
An  instant — and  that  childish  form 

Sways  in  the  warrior's  arms  : 

****** 

Through  darkling  wood,  through  bridgeless  stream 

Cries  out  a  form  of  steel : 
Come  forth  with  Battler,  comrades  all, 

We  conquer  for  Castile  ! 


224  POEMS. 

LAKE   AND   WILD-FOWL. 

IGH  in  the  leaden  skies, 
>?  Dark'ning  the  icing  lake, 
See,  see  the  wild-fowl  rise  ! 
Knowest  thou  where  'tis  he  flies  ? 
Why  he  should  me  forsake  ? 

I  have  seen,  I  have  seen     down  the 

lowering  sky, 

White  messengers  flit  on  the  blasts  that  awake  ; 
And  I  go  where  the  far-darting  sunbeams  yet  lie, 
On  the  berrying  brier  and  the  ripening  brake. 

List  to  the  cry  he  gave  ! 
Ere  down  the  gale  he  wings, 
Ere  in  the  cloud  he  lave. 
Soaring  above  the  wave, 
What  is  the  dirge  he  sings  ? 

Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well,  thou  wert  dear  to  niy 

heart : 
Then  I  laved  in  your  ripples  and  deep,  flowing 

•     springs, — 

Now  cold  art  thou  grown  :  I  in  sadness  depart 
For  my  everglade  home — where  the  trailing  moss 
clings. 


THE  BATTLEFIELD. 

Higli  in  tlie  leaden  skies, 
Dark'ning  the  icing  lake, 
See  my  Inconstant  rise  ! 
Care  I  not  where  he  flies, 
So  he  can  me  forsake. 


22$ 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

(Gettysburg.) 

'WALKED   the  battle-field,— a  smiling 

plain 
With   Autumn's  many  tints   now   all 

aglow, — 

Where  lay  the  anguished,  the  unnum 
bered  slain — 

Where  spread  the  awful  pageantry  of 
woe. 

A  hero  of  the  strife,  with  'bated  breath, 

Told  of  the  days  of  mighty  fears  and  hopes  : 

With  finger  traced  the  carnival  of  Death, 
Held  on  the  tablet  of  those  hills  and  slopes. 


226  POEMS. 

It  is  a  goodly  scene  ;  the  eye  delights 

To  rove  from  plain  to  distant  wooded  side. 

It  finds  no  foeman  on  the  misty  heights, 

Whence  burst  the  flaming,  all-destroying  tide. 

And,  as  along  the  crests  and  vales  we  strayed, 
Whence  grew  a  grateful  Nation's  fond  renown, 

Spoke  of  the  nameless  dead — in  deeds  array 'd  : 
Or  paused  upon  the  hill's  encircled  crown. 

And  so  they  perished  not  :   their  honored  fates, 
Graved  on  the  shaft,  is  that  of  battle-stain. 

The  stainless  marble  to  a  world  relates, 

Of  honored  dead  that  have  not  died  in  vain. 


LINES.  227 

LINES. 

\INSTKEL,    stay!    tliou    shouldst  be 

done  : 

On  the  hearth  cold  lie  the  embers. 
Believe  thy  gentle  heart  hath  won, 

Believe  the  gentle  heart  remembers. 
Cease  ;  thy  wearied  hand  must  fall ; 

It  is  weary  with  thy  dreaming. 
Cease  ;  the  shadows  on  the  wall 

Show  that  day  will  soon  be  gleaming. 
From  thy  musing  turn  away. 

Break  the  spell  that  doth  enchain  thee  : 
For  thy  lamp  of  flickering  ray 

With  its  paleness  doth  instain  thee. 
Believe  thy  spirit's  joyous  bound 

Will  another's  move  to  gladness  ; 
Believe  thy  spirit's  softer  sound 
Will  another's  move  to  sadness. 

Minstrel,  stay  !  let  not  thy  cheek 

Tell  the  fear  thou  shouldst  be  keeping  : 
Nor  thy  traceried  pages  speak 

Of  a  silent  minstrel  weeping. 
Minstrel,  stay  !  thou  shouldst  be  done  ; 

On  the  hearth  cold  lie  the  embers  : 
Believe  thy  gentle  heart  hath  won, 

Believe  the  gentle  heart  remembers. 


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